Peace and Long Life
by Danzinora Switch
Summary: After a cold-start lab experiment gone terribly, terribly wrong, Spock and McCoy are likely to have neither. Chapter 6 is rated M but the rest is more of a strong T. Artwork credited to Ihamtmus. COMPLETE
1. Thorshaya

**A/N: Just a few things to say. Number one: I am already into the 5th chapter on this story and will be updating weekly (to give me time to finish it, mostly). I am super excited for this fic even though I haven't done anything like it before. Wait and see.**

 **Also, news about Strike Force Alpha. Truthfully, I feel that that fic has become my good luck charm. I got partway in, and then suddenly inspiration exploded everywhere else. I've worked on several longer story projects for other fandoms and added a few one-shots, and I've been reticent to continue on while my sudden writing motivation has peaked for so long. I thought it was finally tapering off (I was getting back to the Star Trek fandom) and was about to resume when nope! THIS happened instead! So I am still working on it, it's just been taboo lately. Like I said, my good luck charm.**

 **Now, this fic is pretty dark, so the overall rating may go up to M later depending on how things play out. Any particular warnings will be included in their respective chapters. I now unleash you to read and review.**

* * *

 ** _Thorshaya- explosion_**

* * *

Heat exploded around him. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. Dust, grit, and a light far too bright assaulted him. His fingers curled around the rocks as he kept his head down. Ears ringing, he sucked in air, coughing hard against the smoke.

Wait a minute- rocks?

Spock clenched his fists in the rough soil. Yes, he was lying face-down on the ground, a disturbing difference from when he had been standing in a laboratory just before. He struggled to his knees, kneeling forward on his elbows as another wash of heat rolled over him. He felt nauseous and dizzy.

What had happened? The last thing he remembered was working in the physics lab of a branch of the Vulcan Science Academy. The _Enterprise_ , after successfully performing a cold start on its engines, had been called to Vulcan for intensive study. The scientists had been gleefully trying to replicate their work for the last four years, and a chance to compare notes with Spock and the others who performed the procedure was invaluable. Not everyone was needed, and so shore leave was declared. Spock, intending to get straight to work, had beamed down into the city of Da'Kum'Ulcha.

Taking a shuddering breath, he opened his eyes.

Squinting against the harsh light, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. There were rocks. And rubble. The pounding heat was quite different- it was winter on Vulcan, but somehow this felt off were it even the middle of summer. It was too strong. Spock gripped his head as his stomach rolled.

" _I am Srond, head of the team that developed the theoretical equation," the Vulcan introduced himself._

 _"_ _Spock," he answered, returning the salute. "Your work in formulating the equation may have saved our lives."_

 _"_ _I am honored," Srond responded. They worked closely for several days. Spock remained on ship's time, so he was often in the lab during the middle of the night on Vulcan._

 _The doors opened as he was about to perform a test, and he looked up at his visitor._

Spock heard a moan come from his right. His insides froze.

 _"_ _Whatcha got there, Spock?"_

 _"_ _A reactor with which I am attempting to recreate our cold engine start."_

 _"_ _Need any help?"_

"Spock," the human groaned. "What… what happened?"

Spock once again squinted around the harsh landscape. "I do not know."

Whatever hell he was in, McCoy was with him.

The doctor rolled over and promptly retched. Apparently Spock wasn't the only one who was nauseous. McCoy shakily got to his feet and swayed dangerously once he stood. Spock tracked his movement, noting that the harsh light was fading. McCoy wobbled forward, looking across the rocks. The blood-red light that was setting in drew shadows across the ground.

"What did we do?" McCoy whispered. Spock's ears picked it up, which was a good sign for his hearing. The ringing from earlier was fading. "Spock, what did we do?"

Spock carefully got to his feet. "I do not know that, either," he answered. He felt exhausted.

McCoy turned around to say something to him, and the color promptly drained from his face. Even in the blood-red lighting his blues eyes stood out as they widened in a sickened sense of horror. "Oh my God."

Spock looked behind him, and for a clear, eternal moment, felt his stomach drop away as the strong emotion of horror hit him as well.

Rising up from the rubble was a mighty column of ash and dust. Already monstrous from its girth, it stretched miles and miles into the sky before finally fanning out into the image of death. The dark cloud churned high above them, curling inwards over and over again to fuel the mushroom shape.

"Oh my God," McCoy repeated. "Oh my God." Spock startled back to his senses as the doctor stumbled past him. "Spock, we destroyed the city," he began dazedly. "Oh my God _we destroyed the city!_ "

Spock spun him around and shook him once, trying to stave off the rising panic. "Doctor, that is uncertain-"

" _The whole damn city's gone, Spock!_ "

"Leonard!" He shook him again and the doctor fell silent. Spock took a deep breath, and tried to fight another wave of dizziness and emotion.

"We must look at this rationally," he began quietly, avoiding the 'L' word. "That reactor was far too small to have caused this. Even if something had gone wrong with the test, we were not using real antimatter. Furthermore, the lab is not located in the center of the city. We are where it… once stood. We could not have caused this." Spock hoped the human believed his words, for truthfully, he wasn't certain himself.

McCoy seemed to calm down and nervously rubbed his elbows. He coughed weakly, and cast an unsteady look at the ominous cloud of ruin. "So what did?"

Spock scarcely heard him this time. "I am uncertain," he said. He craned his neck up to look at the ash. "Judging from its shape the classic attribution would be some kind of atomic experiment. Of course, it is not the only explosion to result in a mushroom cl-"

McCoy stirred sharply and grabbed Spock's arm. "We need to get out of here."

"Doctor, I am sure rescue crews will arrive momentar-"

"Yeah, and while they do we need to start getting away." McCoy started tugging Spock along, picking his way across the rubble. "Radiation, Spock. We're far too close and every second we're exposed could mean a worse hell later."

Spock finally understood his urgency, and they moved over the loose stones as rapidly as they could manage. Both were quiet, sending only worry-filled glances over their shoulders at the column behind them.

Yes, worried. Inwardly, Spock admitted that his concern was at a greatened height than he had ever experienced. The worry was not only for their situation, but also himself. Atomic explosions and radiation always went hand in hand, and yet he had failed to put the two together. The oversight was alarming, and he was thankful that the doctor's instincts had taken over. They could both be suffering from shock to an extent, and it was a plausible explanation for his mental state. Still. As a Vulcan he should have control.

But Da'Kum'Ulcha was destroyed, and they were the only two walking away.


	2. T'naehm

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for those awesome reviews! I would say I regret leaving y'all in such dire straits, but quite frankly the rest of this is going to keep doing that. Fair warning!**

 **To clear a couple things up: this takes place in the 4th year of the Enterprise's mission, basically after all the episodes in the original show. The 'cold start' engine doo-dads reference the events in "The Naked Time". Other episode references are buried in this- try to spot them all! ;)**

 **Any Vulcan information I learned from the Memory Alpha Wiki and the online Vulcan-English dictionary. Places are from a map of Vulcan I found on the internet. I, obviously, do not own Star Trek.**

 **There is a quote from Robert Oppenheimer in this chapter.**

 **Thank you, and reviews are appreciated!**

* * *

 ** _T'naehm- war (Old Vulcan)_**

* * *

They stumbled onward. The rubble was left behind but the rocks were just as difficult. The evening had deepened into night. Part of Spock's mind rang that that fact was greatly notable, yet exhaustion and weariness drowned it out.

Up ahead, McCoy tripped and cursed half-heartedly. They had both fallen into a morose silence, spurned on only by the threat of sickness befalling them despite the emptiness inside. The doctor was breathing hard in the thinner air, but stubbornly refused to use one of the tri-ox compounds in his medkit. Spock couldn't fathom what he was saving them for, but couldn't find it within him to care much beyond that. He shambled after McCoy in a daze.

The last rays of Vulcan's sun disappeared and only a red glow from the embers of Da'Kum'Ulcha guided them. Spock tried not to look back at it. How could this have happened? Who did it? Was it really their fault? Did he make a mistake somewhere in the calculations? Could cold-starting the test reactor really have caused this?

He nearly bumped into McCoy who had paused and looked up towards the stars. Spock examined him, hoping he wasn't falling ill. "What is it, Doctor?"

McCoy's face was in shadow but he looked worried, brow creasing. "Somebody should have come by now."

It took Spock a moment longer than he would have liked to catch what the doctor was referring to. "You speak of the rescue crews."

"Yeah." McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. "We should have seen shuttles, or transports, or _something_ flying overhead to investigate. But there's been nothing."

Once again, it unnerved Spock how he had not reached these same conclusions. Something must truly be wrong with his mental functions. He feared radiation sickness was setting in. Pushing it aside, he strove for a logical explanation. "Perhaps the radiation is affecting their sensors. They may not be able to come this close."

"Perhaps…" McCoy trailed. His eyes flicked back to the glowing slag. "I have become the destroyer of worlds," he mumbled.

Spock did not comment.

They resumed walking through the desert, coughing or stumbling occasionally. Spock lapsed back into his stupor. The rescue crews would come. All they had to do was get out of range from the fallout. They could do it on foot. Certainly. Absolutely. They had to. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Sarcasm was not like him. Why-

"Well, about time!" McCoy declared.

Spock looked up to see a few lights coming towards them. Ah, yes. It had to be rescuers from Shi'Kahr. McCoy, revitalized by the hope, started jumping up and down and waving his arms.

"Here!" he shouted across the desert. "We're over here! And we're ALIVE!"

The lights veered towards them, and the surge of hope and relief Spock felt overruled his quip about McCoy's illogical "we're alive" statement.

The doctor stopped jumping but continued to wave his arms. Spock walked up alongside him as the first of the vehicles- with wheels, oddly- came to a halt.

The door to the first car opened and a Vulcan stepped out with heavy boots onto the rocky terrain.

And leveled a gun at them.

McCoy froze, his arms still up in what was now a gesture of surrender. Spock stiffened as other Vulcans hopped out and pointed various firearms in their direction. For several heartbeats nobody moved.

Then the first Vulcan did something unnatural. He _smiled_. That sent more chills down their spines than long-muzzled gun.

"Ra ki'etwel la?" he said languidly. _What have we here?_

Spock's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. This was very, very wrong. The dialect was different. The dress, the vehicles, and the guns were like nothing out of Shi'Kahr. Or at least, the Shi'Kahr they knew.

"Survivors!" McCoy answered, if warily. Spock gave the doctor's collar a once-over and assumed that he was still wearing his universal translator from shore leave. At least that was one less problem they would have to worry about.

"I know that," the Vulcan answered, still in that old dialect. Spock struggled to place it. The group chuckled. "I'll admit, I'm surprised _anyone_ walked out of Shi'al."

Suddenly it all fell into place.

"We are the only survivors," Spock answered shortly. "It would please your superiors to retain us as legal collateral."

"Spock…" Spock ignored McCoy's shocked look. "We _are_ **all** that's left."

The Vulcan before them mulled it over, before finally shrugging. "Alright." Grumbles erupted from the other Vulcans which he silenced with a snarl. Glaring at the two of them, he barked out "Names!"

"I am Spock, son of Sarek, and this is… McCoy, son of… David."

"Then let it be known that Varteth, son of Khol-" Spock closed his eyes. "Has taken Spock and MkKoi of Shi'al prisoner-" "What!?" McCoy exclaimed. "-for the glory of Shi'Kahr! _Zhit-bal!_ "

The Vulcans promptly surrounded them and forced them into the back of one of the cars. The raucous chatter, shoving, and even discontent rolled almost physically over everyone present as the convoy moved out. Spock kept McCoy quiet until the door closed, leaving them trapped inside. The engine started up and they roared away, bouncing wildly over the rough rocks.

"Spock! There had better be a damn good reason for all of this," McCoy hissed to him.

"Doctor, let me be clear: my actions were extremely necessary to ensure our survival."

"Sure they were!" McCoy butted in. "Getting us taken prisoner is a fine way to stay alive! What if they're the ones who bombed Da'Kum'Ulcha?"

"They most certainly are," Spock replied gravely. "Our situation is far more dire than we previously thought. Doctor, is your translator undamaged?"

Confused, McCoy felt along the thin collar under his shirt for the pendant the translator rested in. "I think so," he answered. "It seemed to be working fine when they were talking. Couldn't understand the last couple words, though."

Spock nodded. "There will likely be moments like that to come. They are speaking an older dialect of Vulcan." Spock took a deep breath as he tried to ground his thoughts. They were being annoyingly flighty. "Doctor, I believe we have been transported into Vulcan's past."

McCoy stared at Spock for a long time, only being jostled by the ride. "Okay, Spock. Pull the other one."

"I am serious, Doctor." Spock finally pulled together his observations. He must be more tired than he realized. "In the time period Surak rose up in, Vulcan was at war. Violence and emotions were tearing us apart. Even worse, we had developed technologically. We were rapidly approaching atomic annihilation before Surak intervened." Spock leaned forward, making sure McCoy was still paying close attention. "Da'Kum'Ulcha, formerly known as Shi'al, was wiped out. Shi'Kahr launched a merciless attack against its neighbor and everything in the city was destroyed, as we saw. It remained ruins for millennia. In fact, it was only restored to an operational city in fairly recent Vulcan history. It was renamed Da'Kum'Ulcha specifically from this disaster: the City of Shadows."

McCoy gulped, suddenly remembering how in atomic explosions on Earth people's shadows were seared into buildings even as they themselves were incinerated. The name was haunting. "And you think that's what we just witnessed?" he asked.

Spock nodded. "There can be no other explanation. Vulcan has not had atomic weapons for ages. These Vulcans do not behave in accordance to Surak, in behavior, style, and more. The technology is wrong." His brow furrowed. "Fascinating. The cold start test has sent us back in time yet again. But the difference in distance is remarkable. I suppose somehow the energy from the test bonded with the energy from the destruction of Shi'al, which _is_ the largest explosion Vulcan has experienced to date-"

"Spock," McCoy interrupted. He looked tiredly at him. "When are we?"

"I do not understand."

"How long ago," McCoy spelled it out for him. "Are we now? When did Da'Kum'- um, Shi'al get destroyed?"

"Ah," Spock said. Yet another case of mental inhibitions. It was quite annoying. "We are shortly before the Time of Awakening. In Earth terms, I believe that places us around your 4th century."

"4th century?" McCoy repeated dully.

"Indeed."

McCoy leaned back against the truck, resting his head despite the bumpy ride. His eyes fixed unfocused on a spot towards Spock's right. "That's… fall of Rome. Advent of the Dark Ages. It's…" he shuddered deeply. "We're screwed."

"Not yet, Doctor," Spock said. "We will simply wait and see what opportunities develop." He paused and tilted his head, thinking. "One fortunate outcome of the atomic wars was that Vulcans had the opportunity to develop suitable treatments for radiation sickness. If one was exposed for too long, then nothing could be done, but I believe we will be able to escape the worst effects."

"Thank God," McCoy murmured. "I may have to make some adjustments to those treatments for my physiology-" he broke off as his eyes widened. "Spock, my ears!"

Spock considered the situation. "We could say they are a deformity," he suggested, before dismissing it in his mind. "No- it may incite them to kill you." McCoy made a strangled noise. "We'll say that another Vulcan cut off the tips during _tal'oth_ \- a 4 month desert survival ritual where the participants are armed only with a ritual knife."

McCoy shook his head. "You guys are crazy."

"But dangerous."

"Yeah," McCoy glanced towards the cab where their captors drove. "So that covers the ears, I guess. What else? I have red blood."

"That would be harder to explain," Spock conceded. "Try not to bleed."

" _Thanks_."

"And be sure not to lose the universal translator."

"Any Vulcan you can teach me in case I do?"

They traded important phrases back and forth for a while before finally succumbing to a nervous, exhausted silence. McCoy nodded off in his seat, while Spock took the time to try and meditate on their troubling scenario.

It certainly explained the bomb (which was a great relief, cold as that sounded). The time travel also answered what had puzzled Spock earlier about the setting sun- it was already Vulcan night when he had performed the test. On a darker note, he feared that the time travel was also responsible for his lapses in his usual mental prowess. Granted, when they had traveled backwards in time on Sarpeidon it was to a date 3,000 years earlier than this, but still, it _was_ pre-reformed Vulcan. Pre-awakened Vulcan, actually. It was deeply unsettling.

Well. Emotions are a thing of the mind and the mind can be controlled. Spock would not lose himself this time. He would meditate and follow the course logic would lay.

* * *

Spock must have dozed off at one point because he snapped awake to a lurch and a screech. The back doors opened and he and McCoy were hauled out. The night was especially dark as the tall buildings blocked the starlight. No artificial lights were used, and they were quickly ushered into a stone bunker.

They had reached Shi'Kahr.

The bunker appeared to be some kind of jail, and he and McCoy were fortunate to be tossed into the same one. The procedure was quick and the Vulcans swiftly moved on to other tasks. Doubtless the lateness of the hour had something to do with their easy dismissal.

McCoy felt his way along the floor until he reached Spock. "What happens now?" he asked quietly.

"I believe we wait until morning," Spock answered. "We should use this time to rest- undoubtedly tomorrow will bring new developments."

McCoy nodded in the darkness. "And we'll find a way back home?"

Spock didn't look at him. He hoped the doctor could not see that. "We shall determine that once we see what we're dealing with tomorrow."

There was a moment of silence, then McCoy finally replied. "Alright." He shuffled away to a corner of the cell. "Good night, Spock."

"Good night, Doctor."


	3. Gluvayek

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing/favorting/following this story! I'm glad you're enjoying it as much as I am :) Still expecting regular weekly updates (I just finished chapter 6!) and we're still fine the T rating for the next couple chapters. I will warn you though, things only get worse from here. Please review, and enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Gluvayek- display_**

* * *

They slept longer than either of them expected to, likely due to Vulcan's longer days and nights. That being said, it meant that they were somewhat rested when a horde of Vulcans barged into the jail and yanked them up.

"Move! Quickly!" they ordered.

Varteth, the first Vulcan, was back. Spock promptly rose and did his best to not look like a threat. McCoy took a little longer to get to his feet and was impatiently hauled up by his arm.

Varteth shook him. "You will do what I say when I-!" The Vulcan jerked and did a double-take. It would have been hilarious were the situation not so dire. "What _ponfo mirann_ is that?"

Spock and McCoy exchanged glances, bracing themselves for questions about McCoy's ears. The morning light now made any and all human differences obvious. The doctor opened his mouth to reply when Varteth seized his chin and tilted his head up. "What is wrong with your eyes?"

This was unexpected. They had forgotten that there were barely any blue eyes on Vulcan. Spock stiffened, and started calculating how he could intervene.

McCoy just stared back at him and answered in a steady voice. "Genetic rarity."

Varteth examined the blue irises for a little longer before releasing McCoy and shaking his head. He muttered something inaudible under his breath then motioned for the other guards to handle them. They were marched forward, bumping shoulders with each other. McCoy took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together. Spock wished he could say something, but a gun in his back prevented him. "Move!"

They walked back down the stone halls, so different in the light. Unknowingly, they fell into step with some kind of rhythm that seemed to creep from outside the walls. The pulsing gradually grew louder, and as they crossed the threshold outside they were heralded with a blast of a loud horn. A roar of voices overpowered everything else but that steady rhythm, which, though led by a Vulcan with a massive drum, was amplified by thousands of stomping feet. The whole city seemed to shake.

"Oh, wow," McCoy commented.

Spock could relate. The entire population seemed to have come out to see them. It was both terrifying and disturbing.

They were herded onto some kind of open cart and each had their hands and feet manacled together. The chains looked tiny, but Spock knew that even a Vulcan in _plak tow_ could not break them. Some kind of large, scaly animal was harnessed in front, and when Varteth cracked a whip they jolted off.

They rode down several streets, encountering more of the stomping, shouting Vulcans. Judging by the parked vehicles, Spock figured that their ride in the old-fashioned cart was mostly ceremonial. He ducked as some kind of fruit sailed past his head.

"I think I know how Jesus felt," McCoy said beside him.

Their guards indeed had their guns faced outwards, to prevent an overly-excited Vulcan from harming their prisoners before they reached their destination. Spock tried to recall any information about triumph ceremonies. There were so many gaps in this period of Vulcan that information was sketchy, at best, and likely also steeped in rumors and myth. The one thing he did hope was that they were not going to be publicly executed.

They crossed another street and suddenly the road widened out in a large public square. This was the most crowded they had seen yet. The horn sounded again, and they were finally able to divine its location. A large building rose at the end of the square and the white stone steps led up to a tall patio before the door. On the left side of the patio, a Vulcan stood by a massive, curling horn. On the far right was a large gong. In the middle was a group of Vulcans in long, highly decorated robes. A woman stood in the front, her severe features taking in the sight before her with cold interest.

The cart moved slowly through the crowd, fighting for each foot. When they reached the steps to the mansion the guards moved quickly. In a flash they were off the cart and escorted up the stairs, struggling in their chains.

When they reached the group at the top the Vulcan woman motioned with her left hand. Someone picked up a mallet and struck the gong. Spock winced at the sound, resisting the urge to cover his ears.

The entire square fell silent.

The Vulcan woman traced them with her eyes, evaluating their disheveled state, strange clothes, and odd features. It seemed like the city was holding its breath, waiting for her to speak.

"Thee are the only survivors from Shi'al?" she said. Her voice was smooth and sharp, like honey-covered razorblades.

"Indeed," Spock replied. McCoy nodded beside him.

Her eyes flicked to Varteth, who strode forward and bowed deeply.

"I led my unit to the city and captured them, Tirann," he boasted. "We found them stumbling away from the blast and immediately incarcerated them for your honor today."

Judging by his arrogant look, Varteth expected to be awarded with something, even if it was just spoken praise. Instead, Tirann wrinkled her nose. "You did not cleanse them first?"

Varteth's smile faltered. "I-"

"They come from death. I will not have them spread it here." She turned and spoke to an older Vulcan behind her. "Take them and purify them."

The delegates nodded and removed Spock and McCoy from Varteth's group. Surprised, they were led inside the building, which was even more magnificent. The doors closed behind them, leaving Tirann to deal with Varteth appropriately. Neither of them said a word to each other, though both hoped that this 'cleansing' meant taking care of any radiation they may have.

They were first taken to some showers, and their suspicions were proven correct when they encountered some Vulcans in protective gear. McCoy suddenly jerked and coughed. Unchained and directed to strip, they carefully avoided looking at each other as they entered the soapy spray. Some of the Vulcans gave McCoy some odd looks, but he simply glared back at them every time.

Scrubbed clean, they were provided matching thin robes, which were highly uncomfortable until they realized it was simply for the next round of decontamination. They were led into a small medical area and instructed to wait.

McCoy gagged beside him and Spock rushed to his side, alarmed that the radiation effects were already hitting. Instead, the doctor straightened and held out the module of the universal translator.

"Ripped it out of the collar," he explained. He dried it on part of the robe. "What are the chances they'll give us our clothes back?"

The doctor's quick thinking relieved Spock. It would be cumbersome, holding the component instead of having it around the neck, but perhaps they could pin it to a shirt or find a piece of string to loop it on.

McCoy started roving among the countertops, and Spock kept his eye on their lone guard. He moved closer to McCoy and spoke in English under his breath. "Do you think you can manage, Doctor?"

McCoy nodded. "I brushed up on radiation treatment after our bout on Gamma Hydra IV. I doubt there is anything the Vulcans can do medically about this that will surprise me." He started rummaging through the cabinets.

A growl sounded from the door, and they looked just in time to see their guard tense. "I'm a doctor," McCoy explained, the translator obscured in his fist. "Hassu! Hassu!"

The Vulcan stopped growling, but watched them with no less scrutiny. Spock walked over and began speaking to distract the guard, or at least block his view as McCoy treated himself. He spoke louder when a hypospray hissed behind him.

At that moment the door opened, knocking into Spock and the guard. The Vulcan doctor gave them only a cursory glance before striding in. He messed around with some materials and vials, muttering slightly. McCoy put on his best poker face. At last he faced them with a scanner and some medication.

"Sit down."

They did as told, and he began scanning Spock first. He frowned slightly at the scanner. McCoy twitched beside him.

"You are very sick," the doctor declared. He injected Spock with the medicine anyway. "I will come back to you."

He stood in front of McCoy, frowning as he absorbed the blue eyes and rounded ears. The doctor crossed his arms and raised his chin defiantly, daring him to say something about it. Getting the message, the doctor lifted up the scanner.

"You don't need to do that."

"I am the doctor here-" He broke off as something gripped his neck hard, depriving him of consciousness. With a roar the guard sprang forward, but Spock managed to nerve pinch him as well.

"Great," McCoy said. He took the doctor's scanner, recalibrated it, and ran it over Spock. "You'll be fine," he answered. "You may have a bit of a headache since it was meant for a pure Vulcan, but you're in no danger."

"And you?" Spock asked.

McCoy waved him off. "I'm good. I don't think we were that exposed, however it happened. But now what are we going to do?"

Spock carefully placed the doctor on the examination bed. "First, we will pass his tests." He placed his fingers on the meld points and fell silent for a couple minutes. Abruptly retreating, he walked over and put a hand on the guard. " _Forget._ "

The two started to rouse at the same time, and for a moment Spock wondered if he should pinch them again, providing him and McCoy and opportunity to escape. But they needed more information about where they were, and they had _some_ protection as prisoners rather than fugitives.

McCoy ripped a strand of cloth from the robe and looped it through the translator. He tied it securely around his neck so that it wore like a necklace. "Better than nothing."

"Well, it looks like you scum will live," the Vulcan doctor suddenly declared, startling them. He walked out of the room with his scanner, nodding at the guard rubbing his shoulder.

Now Spock really _was_ tempted to make use of this opportunity to escape. But he had to think logically. Where could they go? Where could they hide and yet still find a way to get home? They would need access to some of the more technologically advanced facilities, and how could they do that if they were hunted by every Vulcan in Shi'Kahr?

The door opened, sealing his decision. Some clothes were tossed in and they hurriedly put them on. McCoy turned up the collar, hiding his translator necklace. They were shackled once again and led further into the exquisite building.

Tirann and her entourage were standing in a grand room. It seemed that they were simply going to pick up where they left off, despite the lack of fanfare. Spock and McCoy were forced to their knees before her.

Spock glanced around the room, trying to determine what method ruin they would face. It felt too private for an execution. The group also carried themselves confidently, as if they had already made a decision. It was likely that the general public knew what was going to happen and this was just to let them know their fate as a courtesy.

The lady signaled one of the delegates. He stepped forward and peered down at them. The disgust ran rampant across his face. Remembering himself, he cleared his throat.

"By order of popular demand, and with permission from Chancellor Tirann, you are to be sold as contraband to those who pay highly for you."


	4. Dahshaya

**A/N: Thank you so much for those reviews! Like I said, things will not improve (at least at this point). It's always darkest before the dawn... we're at maybe dusk. But I'm playing the writer's long con in that these things must happen now for other more important things to happen later. Take care; violence.**

* * *

 ** _Dahshaya- separation_**

* * *

The crowd outside was smaller, though even more interested than previous. They were made to stand at the age of the patio as the Vulcan delegates called out numbers. A few members of the crowd were allowed up and poked and prodded them. Auction. This was a damn auction. It was infuriating.

Spock blinked, appalled at his thoughts. Control, he must control. He regretted not escaping from the doctor's office earlier.

McCoy flinched next to him as somebody nudged him a little too hard in the ribs. Spock himself was uncomfortable with the contact and pulled up his shields to their full strength.

The prodding suddenly stopped and a hush fell over the crowd. The two officers twisted behind them to see Tirann striding regally from the doors. One of the delegates stepped forward.

"Chancellor Tirann has chosen to exercise her right of the spoils!"

There was some grumbling from the crowd. Tirann walked coolly in front of them, eyeing them sideways, before pointing at McCoy. "Ish-vey." _That one._

"What about Spock?" McCoy demanded. He jerked and failed as two of the delegates seized his arms. "No! Wait! What about Spock?!"

"Doctor, I will manage," Spock called after him, raising his voice over the growing chaos.

McCoy continued to struggle as he was pulled back towards the mansion. "Damn it, let me go! Spock! SPOCK!"

The doors clanged after him.

The crowd had been spurred on by McCoy's resistance, and the shouts had reached a raucous level. Spock could spare no further thought for the doctor as the hands returned to him, lifting his arms and turning his head. The interested parties left nothing to the imagination- one even looked down his pants as Spock resolutely suppressed the humiliation of being so used from his mind.

The numbers echoed across the crowd, being countered by other numbers. The price was being driven up. But this was Old Vulcan, and nothing could be done civilly. There was a loud engine and suddenly a desert terrain vehicle roared into the plaza. Someone rode on the back of the truck bed and fired several shots from a long-barreled gun into the air. Some scattered, while others beat the vehicle as it drove by.

The Vulcan with the gun jumped off the truck as his friends blocked the stairs as he marched to the patio. Spock peered at him and stiffened. It was Varteth.

Varteth leveled his gun at the official holding Spock. "He is my prisoner," he declared.

The official straightened. "Then pay for him."

Varteth narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Then your claim is invalid."

Hardly a second passed before Varteth emitted a throaty scream and lunged at the official. He swung his gun and cracked the barrel on the side of the Vulcan's skull. Spock rolled away from the fight as the warrior flew on the dazed delegate in a rage, tossing the gun aside and shredding him with his bare hands. The crowd cheered and gave way to its own violent tendencies. Screaming and smashing erupted from the square, and Spock did his best to try and scoot towards the shadows of the building. If he could get inside and find McCoy…

A hand seized his shirt and hauled him up. Varteth looked at him crazed, green blood dripping down one side of his face. "Not so fast, _viltah!_ " he spat, making Spock's insides freeze for a moment.

"You're _mine_."

* * *

McCoy kept shouting even after the doors closed. The delegates- screw it, _guards_ \- pulled him down different hallways than where they had marched to the decontamination area. He couldn't figure out the purpose of this building. It seemed important, like a town hall, and yet had both ornate assembly rooms and technologically advanced chambers. He supposed that the particular history of this building had let it evolve into some kind of multi-purpose structure. It was certainly large enough.

He was surprised when they finally came to a stop by the back door. There was some rustling behind a tapestry and Tirann emerged. McCoy lifted his eyebrows. It had to be some kind of secret entrance.

She nodded to the guards, and they pushed him through the door. He squirmed and protested, struggling against the chains. "Just wait a minute!"

Tirann was suddenly right in front of him. Her black eyes seemed to bore through his skull. "You have lost, t'var'eth," she said. "Cease this rebellion."

McCoy squared his shoulders indignantly. "In body, but not in mind," he remarked.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, displeased, then jerked her head. The guards succeeded in pushing McCoy outside and into a waiting vehicle. The doctor fought down a moment of panic as the engine started and they pulled away from the magnificent building. He gulped down his nerves and grasped his hands as he twisted in his seat. "Spock…"

The ride was unnervingly silent. At first he tried to memorize the route they took so he could find his way back to the square, but after the umpteenth turn he gave up and started studying his captors.

Spock had only briefly mentioned tidbits about pre-reformed Vulcans. He described them as utterly barbaric, violent, and uncontrolled. So far McCoy hadn't seen anything overtly different from the mob mentalities other species displayed. Sure, there was some unusual wordplay, but that was it.

Of course, maybe that wordplay was the only thing holding it all together. Vulcans _did_ have emotions after all. They simply controlled them through harsh logic. The Romulans had their military discipline. Perhaps these old Vulcans used elaborate rituals and social orders to tenuously reel it all in. After all, there had to be _some_ cooperation for them to advance this far. Tirann and her group were at the top of the food chain, and so far acted the closest to modern Vulcans that McCoy could see.

They stopped before a small, yet heavily fortified building. Quickly ushered inside, it certainly had more comfortable decorations. McCoy figured that this was Tirann's dwelling place, and his heart sank at how secure everything was. Escaping would be difficult to say the least.

He was made to stand in the middle of some kind of living room. The guards backed off as Tirann approached, looking him up and down. She crossed her arms and gazed at him steadily. He glared back.

"Your ears," she spoke flatly. "What happened to them?"

McCoy remembered what Spock had said. "Another participant cut off the tips during our _tal'oth_ many years ago."

A pleased sound rumbled deep in her throat. "They sound like an amusing individual. I should like to meet them one day."

"Well, you lost your chance to do that when you blew up the city!" he snapped back.

There were two seconds of stunned silence, then the room broke out laughing. "Your rebellion is most interesting," Tirann said, smiling (God, that looked freaky). "You have a point, t'va'reth."

"The name's McCoy," he retorted. He was annoyed that the translator didn't recognize that last word, but it certainly sounded like an insult to him.

"Of course," she dead-panned. "Tell me… what of your eyes?"

"Rare genetics."

"Extremely rare." She stalked around him slowly. "You are very unique."

"How flattering."

"Do you have any skills?"

"I'm a doctor," he replied. He was suddenly very aware of the translator on his throat. "I heal people."

"I know what a doctor does," she answered disdainfully. She finished her circle and stood back in front of him. "At least you may have more uses than I initially realized."

Wondering what uses she could divine just by _looking_ at him (and trying not to imagine the answer) McCoy took a step forward. "I won't be your puppet."

"Then you'll die."

He paused and wavered. Tirann hadn't even blinked. He needed to find Spock, and then they needed to get out of here. He certainly couldn't do that dead.

Not daring to make it look like he was submitting, he crossed his arms. "Fine. What the hell do you want?"

"You will be physician to this house," she said lightly. "You will treat only the members I allow you to treat. You will also do anything I command you to do _when I tell you to do so._ These activities will vary. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Good." She paused and surveyed him once more. "Rahnen," she instructed. "Fetch MkKoi something to eat." She narrowed his eyes at his surprised look. "You will begin your duties after you are fed."

"Yes ma'am," he answered.

She tilted her head and frowned sternly at him, and he fearfully wondered if the translator had miscommunicated something. But she shook her head and moved away, leaving him room to sit down.

He _was_ famished. And unbelievably thirsty. The events of the day had occupied his attention such that he hadn't realized it until now. This wasn't good. Vulcan was hotter and drier than Earth which meant he would need plenty of fluids. He also ran the risk of being discovered because it was tougher laboring in the thin air and heavier gravity. It was hardly midday and he was already exhausted.

McCoy dutifully ate the soup and drained the water. He certainly hoped Tirann was rich enough to replenish whatever precious supply she had. If he still had his medkit he could've taken some tri-ox compounds which would have alleviated nearly all of his symptoms. Of course, if he was going to be doctoring this household they might let him around such supplies where he could make some himself.

He heard Rahnen growling at him, and quickly finished up his meal. Work was calling.

* * *

Spock closed his eyes. It was illogical. Having his eyes opened or closed wouldn't make any difference, but at least with them open he would know what was coming. Yet he closed them. Why?

He stoically grunted when the rod hit his back again. He was a Vulcan, but not like these barbarians. Pain was a thing of the mind. He could and would certainly control it.

The mental slips he had experienced earlier were gone, at least, that's what he told himself. He was still exhausted and hungry, which theoretically could hinder him. With his eyes closed, he focused on the agenda before him.

 _Strike!_ He had to escape from Varteth's hold and elude recapture. He must try to find McCoy and-

 _Strike!_ They must discover a way to return to their own time. This may mean-

 _Strike!_ Breaking into a highly secure atomic facility or-

 _Strike!_ Or other such laboratory and-

 _Strike!_ They must-

 _Strike!_ Must?

 _Strike!_

Darkness.


	5. Kafeh

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for those awesome reviews! They really warm my heart :) Once again, I would like to remind everyone that I'm doing a long con here in that certain things must happen to our heroes for other parts to make sense later. These are some dire straits, but we will have to hold on until the next chapter. I've been saying "darkest before the dawn" and we're at midnight and later here. Poor guys.**

 **Anyway, still T but up a notch. Nothing triggery, as it's more psychological. Good luck.**

* * *

 ** _Kafeh- slave_**

* * *

McCoy tossed and turned on the pallet, trying to get comfy. The thin mattress was his only barrier to the stone floor, and he was jealous that Tirann got the comfortable raised bed. For the past two nights he hadn't slept well, waking up with sore muscles and a stiff back. So he continued to squirm for a better position. At the very least, he figured his tossing and turning would make enough noise to annoy Tirann into unchaining him.

The first time he was shown where he would be sleeping he balked. At the base of Tirann's bed was one thing, but also cuffed to the bottom of the post? He had no good way to refuse, however, since he was staying there either by force or by will. It didn't mean McCoy didn't grumble about it. Even worse, he was on the side that Tirann exited by each morning, and she stepped down whether he was there or not. He was startled awake the first time with a shout when a foot landed on his stomach, and his shout had startled Tirann enough that she almost impaled him on her knife.

It would have been comical, except that McCoy was constantly worried that his bruises might bleed.

The first day he learned that all of the delegates had a temper. Rahnen liked to backhand people, Fahlar was a tripper, and Pomelek tended to go for the throat. McCoy wasn't even sure what he did to piss everyone off, but he somehow managed it. Maybe Jim was right that his mouth would get him into trouble one day.

It panged McCoy's heart to think of him, so he pushed the thought aside.

Tirann was the only one who had so far not expressed any signs of homicidal rage. She maintained that cold distance to him and hardly touched him, except when she literally walked all over him every morning.

Sighing, he rolled over on his back and bent his elbows, resting his wrists above his head closer to the bedpost. It meant his knuckles tapped on the floor instead of the pallet, but at least it gave his back some measure of relief. Gradually he dozed off.

One minute he was out and the next he jerked awake as something heavy landed on his leg. Tirann was up. She plodded off towards the restroom, not sparing him a glance. McCoy let his head fall against the pallet and waited. He debated trying to catch a few more winks in the interval, but Tirann was ever efficient and she was promptly back next to him, unlocking him.

He rubbed his sore wrists as he got up, and silently began clocking his time in the restroom. Tirann did not like delays. Sometimes he wondered if the modern Vulcan evolved from her. If there was no purpose to something, she didn't bother with it.

He was out in record time and followed her down to eat breakfast. There was a particular order to meal times: Tirann would always start eating first, and then her (business associates? Bodyguards? The delegates never seemed to leave) would join in. McCoy would have to wait until everyone was finished, and then after eating his work would begin. First order was always the dishes. He was getting pretty good at figuring out how to clean them with sand instead of water.

So far, they had mostly given him housework. Dishes, cleaning, repairing small odds and ends, and making their beds were as strenuous as it got. He counted himself lucky- Spock's horror stories of this time period were still fresh in his mind. He could tolerate being a maid for a time or two. The only stigma was that he _had_ to stay out of everyone's way and he wasn't allowed outside.

At first, he figured he could take advantage of their dismissal of him. He explored the entire house/office (and decided that it really was one of the more well-off residences in the city) and took notes on all the windows and doors. However, actually _getting_ outside was more problematic, because Rahnen or somebody would always suddenly appear. Maybe they were watching him after all for escape attempts. Or, maybe he had to prove himself first. If the good little prisoner didn't mess up indoors, then he could get permission to go outside.

So far he hadn't had to treat anyone in the house. But judging from the shouting downstairs, he figured that was about to change.

He crept nervously into the room to see Rahnen and Polemek verbally going at it, inches from each other's face. They were speaking so fast McCoy's translator could hardly keep up. Half of the words sounded like growls, too. He watched in slack-jawed awe at the raging Vulcans. He certainly wasn't going to see a display like _this_ again when he got back home.

That thought shook him out of his reverie. With two of the three guards distracted, this might be his chance to escape. It meant having to inch around the Vulcans, but they seemed distracted enough to not pay him any heed.

Carefully, he skirted through down the hall and began to circle around them. The fight had escalated to shoving and, spying an opening, he darted towards the door.

A stray backhand sent him flying into the living room.

McCoy grunted as he crashed into the wall, practically bouncing off and landing on a table. He rolled off and hit the ground hard, groaning. "Watch where you throw me!"

Rahnen and Polemek had frozen, surprise etched clearly on their faces. McCoy supposed they were unaccustomed to lighter, less dense humans. He staggered to his feet and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

It came back red.

McCoy froze, staring at it with wide eyes.

He scarcely had time to look up before Rahnen had crossed the distance of the room and seized him by the throat. McCoy's eyes bugged as the Vulcan lifted him off the floor, letting his feet dangle. Over the ears, he could see Polemek running out of the room. His mind flashed with an absurd observation of the situation. Huh. The throat was normally Pomelek's party trick.

Rahnen shook him as he grappled at the strong wrist and then swiftly turned and hauled him back towards the kitchen. He threw McCoy down on his back on a table, still shaking him. The Vulcan's eyes flashed with a dark rage giving way to homicidal fury. The sight scared McCoy more than he could put words to.

"What is this, freak? What kind of trick is this?" Rahnen squeezed his throat and McCoy tugged at his fingers, trying desperately to loosen his grip. His panic increased and for a moment he thought he saw a mirrored fear in Rahnen's eyes. "Why is your blood red?"

"Release his neck, Rahnen, and we may get some answers."

McCoy was starting to see stars when the pressure finally relented. He gasped and coughed, aware that Polemek had returned with Tirann and Fahlar. He continued hacking as she walked up to him, searing her icy gaze on his wound.

"Explain."

"What-" he coughed. "What did your doctor do to me?"

There. That was good.

Tirann stiffened. "I do not know what you mean."

"You think _I_ do?" He sat up on the table and touched where his head had scraped the wall. With the best wigged-out face he could muster, he looked at the red blood on his hands. " _Trust_ me, out of those of us here, _I'm_ the most surprised."

"So this is a new development?" she interrogated.

"Hell, yes!" He winced as the exclamation tugged at his sore throat. "What did that doctor give me?"

"Normal radiation treatment," she replied crisply. "He is above reproach." Her tone brokered room for no argument. This just got trickier.

McCoy hesitated. "I suppose… no, it couldn't be."

"What?" she demanded.

"I was working in a chemistry lab when the bomb dropped," he began slowly. "I suppose… something I may have been exposed to may have reacted with the Vul- the doctor's treatment resulting in… this." McCoy looked at the blood on his sleeve again and shuddered.

"Are you ill?" she asked flatly.

"What?"

"Are you ill?" she repeated with a hiss.

He shook his head. "No. I didn't notice anything was different until Rambo- er, Rahnen- here tossed me into the wall."

Her eyes shifted to the hulking Vulcan. "Is this true?"

"It was an accident," he said.

She sniffed. "Next time, don't have any _accidents_ while I am in a council meeting. I'm trying to get all this work done before Rumarie." Tirann eyed them both. Then she shifted back to McCoy.

"Since you are not sick, you will continue to perform your duties as the kafeh of this household. However, you will also investigate the cause of your… condition. This could be of great scientific interest." She looked him over once more, and he held his breath as her gaze seemed to linger over his strange eyes and ears. Finally, with a twist of her heel she was off.

McCoy breathed a sigh of relief when he was suddenly kicked in the back.

"So," Fahlar grinned. Polemek and Rahnen cracked their knuckles. "Get moving!"

Muttering invectives under his breath, McCoy slunk off to nurse his wounds.

* * *

Spock was finding it difficult to think.

He stayed huddled in his corner of some kind of compound, chained by the ankle. It was difficult to determine if this was a military complex or some kind of training barracks. It could be both, for all he knew. Details of the exact nature of things were sketchy for this time period.

Varteth hardly left as he commanded various other Vulcan warriors through endless series of drills. In the "downtime" the strictness was just as pronounced but with an increased level of cruelty. Spock had watched many of the Vulcans brawl over the simplest thing, be it what was on their food tray or a wrong look at the wrong time. Varteth simply encouraged the behavior, believing he was weeding out the lesser soldiers. He himself regularly engaged in such conflicts, and always came out victorious. His owner was a very boastful man.

Spock would have liked to remain invisible, but Varteth never seemed to quite forget him. On the first full day of Spock's captivity, he had walked up to him and place a tray of food on the floor before him.

"Eat," he instructed.

Hesitantly, Spock had reached a hand out towards the food. With a sudden movement Varteth stomped one end of the tray, sending it flying up towards Spock's face and scattering food everywhere. The metal tray had almost broken his nose. Varteth had laughed at his expense and left him to scrape what mash he could off the floor to nourish himself. It was degrading, and Spock tried not to think about it.

In fact, he tried not to think about a lot of things. The dehumanization and humiliation Varteth continued to sporadically inflict on him was unfathomable, at least, to a Vulcan. When he could, Spock tried to meditate to block the dog-like treatment from his mind. He only achieved a restless peace. His condition and stressful environment often impeded his efforts. Plus, when Varteth would catch him he would believe he was dozing and kick him awake.

Even worse, the Vulcan didn't seem to mind when other soldiers mistreated his _kafeh_. They would spit on him as they walked by, or taunt him from beyond the reach of his chain. It was easier to ignore the taunting, as he had become adept to brushing aside such insults during his childhood. But when they approached- pulling him around by his ears- it was harder to remain peaceful and passive.

Violence was wrong, and over and over Spock chanted to himself several of Surak's sayings.

"Ri klau au ik klau tu," he whispered, his head buried in his knees. He rocked slowly over the concrete. "Vah mau vah tor-yehat ri stau. Ri klau au ik klau tu…" _Do no harm to those who harm you. As far as possible, do not kill._ He would not lash out.

Gradually, he raised his head to see that nearly all of the soldiers were facing a raised platform. Varteth had taken the stage, and the complex fell silent as he waited to speak. Though tired, Spock listened.

"Soldiers of Shi'Kahr!" he boomed, instantly captivating the crowd. He grinned widely. "Only two more days until Rumarie!"

Laughter rippled through the soldiers. Spock surmised it was a joke, or at least a lighter comment to break any remaining tension. He figured something about 'Rumarie' was important, but his brain was too muddled to determine what right then.

Varteth sobered, an intense ambition dancing behind his dark eyes. "There have been more reports from the west. Our enemies are constructing some kind of powerful, new weapon. Time and again we have brought these reports to Tirann, only to be dismissed as paranoid youths!" He curled his hand in a fist as he shouted.

"Something must be done to save Shi'Kahr! While this weapon grows, we are strangled by our 'leaders' in these walls! Are they the ones going out and invading the other cities?"

The crowd shouted back angrily.

"Is Tirann responsible for planning the war strikes?"

"No!"

"Why do you and I, the brave, true, warriors of Shi'Kahr bow to such docile, _effeminate_ leadership?" Varteth whipped up the group's passions as he strode across the platform. "A threat to our very existence is rising from Gol! Will we tolerate it?"

"NO!"

"Or will we fight?!"

"YES!" The soldiers broke any semblance of order and wildly praised the implications. They danced, clapped, shouted, and cheered as Varteth issued orders for certain preparations. After all, Rumarie was approaching.

As the soldiers raucously disbanded to take care of such tasks, Varteth glided through the churning masses until he stood before Spock. Spock stayed down on the ground, wisely not looking him in the eye.

Varteth spoke. "That was a good speech, was it not?"

Spock nodded. He couldn't remember the exact social rules of a _kafeh_ , but while all others demanded that weakness must not be shown, it seemed counterproductive to apply that reasoning here. He settled for meekness and submission, so as not to upset the unbalanced Vulcan leader.

Said Vulcan nodded back. "I thought so myself." He stepped forward and nudged Spock's elbow, getting his attention. "It is customary to show appreciation for a speech like that."

Spock considered the likelihood that he could break his chain and overpower Varteth. The odds were… were… well, not good. He had trouble summoning up the correct numbers. He bowed lower to the ground.

"Clean my boots."

He looked up, confused. "I have no materials with which to cleanse them," he said.

"Nonsense," Varteth declared. "You have a tongue." He stepped closer. "Now clean my boots."

For a clear moment, Spock could feel his skin crawl with revulsion. Lick his boots clean? He should just break Varteth's ankles. He blinked in surprise, quickly squashing the violent thought. That would not do. Ri klau au ik klau tu. Control, he would control these primal urges…

Moving slowly, as if he carried all of Vulcan on his back, he crawled forwards.


	6. Rumarie

**A/N: PLEASE NOTE THE M RATING CHANGE. It's only for this chapter (the rest, so far, has been fine) but applicable nonetheless. There are some dubious close calls in an adult context.**

 **Secondly: THIS IS CANON. I know, hard to believe. I did not create 'Rumarie' it was first mentioned in a Voyager episode "Meld" by the character Neelix. So believe it or not, this, erm, festival (defined below courtesy of Memory Alpha and the Vulcan language website) is NOT the creation of a fanfiction writer's mind- it actually exists in the Star Trek universe. Obviously, I do not own it, but it is for this very reason that this chapter is rated M. Naturally, such adult situations cannot be avoided during this time (and it helped the plot, so...).**

 **You have been informed. Proceed appropriately.**

* * *

 ** _Rumarie- a pagan festival celebrated by feasting, orgies, and other hedonistic activities. Riilan grease was applied; it has not been practiced since the 14th century_**

* * *

McCoy could feel that something was different. The entire day had been pretty mellow. Nobody growled at him, he wasn't overly mistreated, and he had plenty of time to work in the small infirmary making tri-ox compounds. He'd been happily patting himself on the back for his blood-disorder-reaction ruse, as it allowed him to write off any following human features as symptoms. After all, the guard that watched him in the infirmary couldn't tell the difference. He took his first full breath of air in days after the first tri-ox injection. It felt great.

But everyone else was a little weird. It was especially odd when Tirann, who had been busy all day getting some government work done, called it a night early. McCoy was thankful for some extra sleep, but it was just… odd. Changes in routine tended to make him nervous.

He twisted until he was comfy in his manacles, and promptly dropped off. He didn't stir again until Tirann woke him up through her usual routine. McCoy sighed and laid back on the mattress, waiting for Tirann to finish up in the bathroom and unlock him.

Where was Spock? He hoped the Vulcan was alright, or at least in better circumstances than he was. Had Spock escaped by now? Was he looking for him? McCoy had been watching for an opportunity to leave, but the security was so _airtight_. Made sense, considering who lived there. Still, he was getting impatient. McCoy didn't handle impatience very well. So maybe today would provide an opening.

Tirann was taking a while in the bathroom, he suddenly noticed. She'd never been gone this long before. He groaned and dropped his head back. All that meant was that his muscles were getting stiffer on the thin mattress on the darn floor-

The door opened and he raised his head again. And gawked.

Tirann had her hair down, and seemed very… shiny. The thing that got McCoy's attention, however, was the thin scarf draped over her neck and hanging down across her chest, swaying next to her hips.

It was the only thing she wore.

"Um," he stammered, looking away. He was always one to give a lady her privacy, and the gentleman inside him cringed as she knelt down next to him and unlocked him. "Um."

She leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Take your time."

He hurriedly got up and tried not to run to the bathroom. Inside, he locked the door and took several deep breaths.

Okay, number one: what the hell?

Vulcan or not, Tirann was the _last_ person he'd ever expect to do something like _that_. She didn't seem to care, either. The entire thing was entirely incongruent to her personality. Had she gone crazy? Was yesterday just the calm before the storm?

Wait a minute- what was that word people kept saying? Rumarie? The translator hadn't recognized it, and he'd assumed it was some kind of time measurement. 'Until Rumarie', 'Rumarie is coming soon'. Today would be this 'Rumarie', then. So… it was a holiday?

McCoy glanced at the bathroom door and shuddered.

What a wacked-out holiday.

He splashed some precious water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

"Okay, Leonard. This is weird. You know it's weird. However, it's _not_ weird to probably anyone else. You can handle whatever this is. Chances are you'll see a way to escape since it's a holiday. Just blend in until you find that. When in Rome, do as the Romans do." He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "Fine. But I'm keeping _my_ clothes on."

When he exited the bathroom Tirann was gone. McCoy walked down the stairs towards the main rooms and heard a faint sound coming from the floor. It was music- it sounded kind of like the harp Spock had.

He entered the area of the kitchen and living and realized that there were a few more Vulcans present than he normally saw. The regular three guards were there, but so were some other males and even a few females. Hardly anyone was wearing any clothing, and they all seemed to have that strange shine. Some appeared to be feeding each other, one Vulcan was playing the harp, and the rest were mostly engaged in some kind of… group make-out session?

When he found Spock he would demand to know every detail about this previously-unheard-of 'Rumarie'.

Tirann detached herself from the group and walked gracefully over to him. McCoy averted his eyes, sporadically rubbing his elbows.

"I trust you rested well?"

 _First time she's ever asked,_ he thought sarcastically. "Well enough."

"That is good." She moved to closer to touch him, but he side-stepped her grasp. "I'm, uh, I'm just going to eat first, if you don't mind."

He nervously poured himself some of the tough grain that constituted Vulcan cereal. When he sat down at the kitchen table, Tirann sat on it, watching him eat. Her scarf rested dangerously close to the bowl. McCoy ate quickly, trying to block the anxiety and weirdness from his mind.

Finished, he moved to take his bowl to the sand-sink, but Tirann's hand stopped his wrist on the table. It felt slippery, and he realized that it was some kind of oil or grease that made all these Vulcans look shiny. They were covered head to toe in it. He took a deep breath and looked up at her.

She stared at him steadily. "You can leave that there."

McCoy nodded, nervously flexing his fingers. He could practically hear his bones move in her grip. Tirann kept gazing at him, never losing her cool countenance.

"You are fully covered," she said, as casual as talking about the weather.

"Well… yes. I, uh," he blinked as she started moving her fingers along his, tracing his index and middle finger up and down with hers. It vaguely reminded him of a motion he'd seen Sarek and Amanda perform, with those two fingers touching at a cross. This felt a little more vulgar than that, especially when she slid a finger between the two.

"Well, what I mean is, um, you see," he stuttered, trying to come up with another excuse. His brain seemed to be failing him this time. Maybe there was a limit on how many times he could easily explain away his human nature.

"Is it your new status that concerns you?" Tirann replied, still absently tracing his pinned hand. "Did they not indulge their kafehlar during Rumarie in your old city?"

"Well," McCoy broke off when she lifted his hand between them. He met her intense black eyes as she held his wrist.

"That no longer matters," she said quietly. "You are _my_ kafeh, and you shall do as I please."

"Um-" McCoy still didn't know how to respond. What kind of holiday was this, anyway? Tirann leaned back, still holding his wrist, and the motion made him lean forward over the table. It felt very awkward.

Tirann made a noise of dissatisfaction. She hopped off the table and pulled him out of his seat. With that simple tug McCoy suddenly realized a cold fact: this lady was still a Vulcan, and thus still as strong as one. She could, almost certainly, overpower him if it came to that.

As his mind analyzed the realization, Tirann had sought out his other hand and entwined their fingers, rubbing them gently. He abruptly slammed back into reality when she pressed up close to him. McCoy backpedaled quickly, bumping into the table.

"So nervous," she observed, dismissing it in the same breath.

"Well, I mean, it's been awhile and uh-" he was interrupted by a loud groan to their left. The group in living room's make-out session had turned _far_ more sensual. Rahnen and another woman suddenly detached from the group and retreated elsewhere in the large home. McCoy watched them leave, and noticed the amount of discarded scarves and blankets littering the floor. The Vulcan harpist kept playing, despite someone kneeling in front of him.

His attention was suddenly brought back to Tirann as she pushed him down on his back on the table. It was an ironic twist to when Rahnen throttled him in the same spot a couple days before. He frantically scrambled further back as she crawled up after him. She pushed down on his shoulder, stopping his movement, and carefully brushed aside his cereal bowl.

"Listen, I don't think-"

"Silence." She touched one end of her scarf over his mouth. McCoy's mind whirred. She left that end, dangling off her neck, there as her hands moved across his torso. McCoy shook it off his face and pushed against her shoulders as she leaned down to kiss him.

"Ma'am, I mean no offense, but I don't really understand," he said.

Tirann straightened her back then moved his hands back down to the table, holding them on either side of his head. "I intend to celebrate pleasure with you first," she stated, as if it was obvious. She straddled his hips and leaned down over him again. "I am allowed to do what I will with my kafeh."

 _Dear Lord, is she going to screw me right here on the table?_ McCoy glanced at the others in the living room who were clearly not caring about who all was watching. He looked on his other side and winced as his cereal bowl stared him in the face. That somehow just felt… unclean. Now he really had the urge to just _wash_ the damn thing. It was bugging him more with every passing nanosecond.

Besides, as obliging a gentleman as he was, table sex really wasn't his style. Even more importantly, as he twitched his hands in Tirann's grasp, he didn't feel like he could physically extract himself from the situation if it overstepped his boundaries, and _that_ was something that truly worried him. The entire situation was dubious at best, and it rattled him deeply inside that he may not be able to pull away.

Tirann kept moving over him, doing an almost swaying dance. She extended his arms above his head and he squirmed as he realized that she was indeed stronger than his human blood. He harshly pushed down his growing anxiety and wiggled some more, testing other boundaries.

He jumped when Tirann took both his wrists in one hand and slid the other up his shirt.

She hummed in pleasure, and continued to insistently rub his skin. McCoy twisted. At one point he brought his knees up, to see if he could nudge her off, but that only made her grind his hips. He did _not_ want to encourage her.

Tirann leaned over his face again, her free hand tracing his hair. The strange grease smelled a bit like cedar with a dash of honeysuckle. McCoy blinked, an idea finally gracing him.

"Say," he began, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat once. "I haven't, erm, applied any of this oily stuff. I should probably go do that, don't you think?"

Tirann stopped moving and looked at him. "You need riilan?"

He nodded vigorously. "Yes! That. I didn't see any in your bathroom; where do you keep it?"

She straightened up slowly, moving his hands down towards his sides as she did so. She kept a loose hold on them as she frowned. "You _really_ must apply riilan?"

"Everyone else has it, don't they?"

She looked over at the orgy in the living room. McCoy held his breath in hope. Please let her let him get it, please let him up…

"Fine," she said carelessly. She slid off him and sat on the corner of the table. "Go quickly."

With great relief McCoy sat up and practically flew off the table. "I'll be right back."

"Mm," she grunted, still watching the orgy. " _Don't_ delay."

McCoy hurried out of the room, almost shaking from his close call. He retreated up the bedroom's bathroom and locked the door. After splashing more water on his face he furiously paced back and forth.

He had to get out of here. Now was his chance. Everyone else was distracted with each other and so no one would be watching him too closely. Would the doors be locked? Possibly. What about the windows? He'd always worried that the commotion and longer time to escape through a window increased his chances of being caught. Besides, most of the windows seemed bulletproof, and the ones on the second floor were obviously out of the question.

But he could get out through the infirmary's window, he realized. There wouldn't be a guard with him this time. He would even have a head start.

Giddily, he drank some water from the sink and planned his escape. Stepping out of the bedroom, he started back down the hall, aiming for the infirmary.

He didn't hear another door open, but he did feel someone catch his arm.

McCoy turned, startled, and saw Rahnen holding him, a sated smile on his face, yet apparently interested in more.

"Hello, funny kafeh!" he greeted pleasantly.

McCoy blinked. Was he drunk? High? Something else? Maybe it was just the rampant hedonism of the day getting to the normally irate Vulcan. "Um, hi," McCoy answered. He tugged at his arm, trying to step away from the Vulcan.

"I am happy," Rahnen suddenly declared. He pulled McCoy a little closer.

"Okay… good for you?"

Rahnen sighed loudly. "It is a good day for celebration."

"I'm sure."

"We are reminded that we still love passionately," he continued. He looked wistfully back at the door from whence he came.

"Great, ah-" McCoy was suddenly cut off when Rahnen maneuvered him against the wall. He immediately started sweating. Whatever physical control he felt Tirann had over him was nothing compared to being manhandled by Rahnen. The Vulcan had both his arms now, keeping him face-first in the wall. It wasn't hostile, but it made McCoy panic all the same. He tried to move and found he couldn't.

"Funny kafeh," Rahnen sighed, pressing into his back. His right arm snaked across McCoy's chest and his left crossed him somewhere decidedly lower. He stuck his nose in the crook of McCoy's neck and breathed deeply. "You are not so bad, after all."

He pressed McCoy further into the wall, moaning softly, and McCoy's brain suddenly spiked to sheer terror.

 _Don't don't DON'T!_

Rahnen suddenly flew off him as if electrically shocked. McCoy gasped and spun away from the wall, facing him. The Vulcan's eyes were blown wide with receding fear, gradually growing more confused. McCoy clutched his heart as he backed away down the hall.

"I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't know why. "Just… don't touch me." He turned and fled down to the infirmary.

Inside, he immediately injected himself with some tri-ox. His breathing slowed and his heartrate calmed with the added oxygen. He loaded up several more shots of the substance in a small pouch and moved to the window. Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed that neither Rahnen nor another guard had followed him in.

Without a second thought, he boosted himself up and climbed outside.

The heat nearly unbalanced him, but he adjusted quickly and started speed-walking away from the building. He had no idea where he was, but the important thing was to get as far away as possible before Tirann or anyone else realized he was missing.

As he fled his former prison, he didn't notice four shadowy figures sneaking their own way inside.

* * *

Spock rocked back and forth on his heels, praying, meditating, purging, and controlling. He needed to focus. He needed to meditate. He must keep these ancient urges away. He would not forsake his ancestry. Hold on…

The activities of the morning had kept interrupting his attempts. He was famished, and thirsty, and exhausted. He had failed to achieve peace in three days. The loud preparations for the attack on Tirann made his nerves scream, and at times he even broke down and physically covered his ears, clinking his new cuffs. He rocked back and forth faster, squeezing his eyes shut. He must control. He must.

A harsh laugh shattered his concentration once again. He narrowed his eyes at the pretentious Vulcan. Varteth. His abuser, his captor. Joking around with some subordinate. Control, control. He needed to be ready. The compound was almost deserted for Rumarie and alibis for everyone. The elite members dispatched to take down the chancellor and her delegates would be lost among sheer numbers, unable to pinpoint. Varteth had sent them off personally. And now he _laughed._

"What do you intend to do?" the subordinate asked.

"I shall follow them shortly." Spock gritted his teeth. He hated that voice. His loathing had ceased to surprise him anymore, which only highlighted how far he was slipping. Control, control…

The subordinate moved off, leaving for his own festivities. "But first…" Varteth approached Spock. Shaking, he looked up at him.

That hideous smile. Control, control the rage. Do not give in.

"It is Rumarie, viltah," he sneered, and the insult nearly blanked Spock's mind with fury. He stepped closer and tilted Spock's head up.

"I expect satisfaction."

Spock looked at what was eye level to his kneeling position and, and-

There was red. Everywhere. There was a shrieking sound, piercing snaps and one, terrible _crack_ that drowned out everything but the chaotic howling in his mind. He burned in rage, he roared in triumph. Enough was enough! Never would he be subjected to this again!

Wrists raw from snapping his chains, Spock slowly looked down at Varteth's crooked head, his neck lying still and silent beneath his hands.


	7. Tas'a-sular

**A/N: What ho? What's this? An early update? I am going to be on vacation next week so instead of making y'all wait I'm uploading chapter 7 today! Thank you for bearing with me through the last chapter... now we will see what will become of those events!**

 **Also, lookey, lookey! I invented a Vulcan word! Directly translated, tas'a means chaotic and sular means people, so chaotic people... you get the idea.**

 **Thank you, everyone, for reviewing so far! Enjoy this next installment! See you next Saturday EST!**

* * *

 ** _Tas'a-sular -Riot_**

* * *

Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu – tilek svi'sha'veh. _The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own._

The chant reverberated through Spock's mind. They were the only words he was aware of, even if he couldn't place their importance. He felt unbalanced. He walked away from the body several times, always returning, before finally putting enough of an idea together to take the keys and properly unlock himself. As the cuffs fell away, he leapt back from the sound. What had he done? What just happened? His emotions howled in his mind and drove him from the room.

There was heat all around him. He ran forward, blindly, pelting through the warping mass of structures. Sounds beat down on him like the rays from the sun. Laughter. Cheering. Sighing. Pleasure. Contentment. Glee. It all made him dizzy.

He found himself in the middle of a crowd. It was even hotter here. Slippery bodies moved past and around him, smelling of riilan. He froze on the spot, held in place by everything assaulting his senses. Charming laughter, and a soft pair of lips met his. He should comply. Shouldn't he? Why not? The intense sensations of the world were incredible! He started to laugh at his buzzing overstimulation.

But… wait!

He, had a purpose! Something he had to do! He pushed away the softer body and stalked through the moving crowd, furiously trying to think. He was so muddled. There was… there was a plan? It sounded exhausting. He was supposed to do something. What? He couldn't shake this little drive, this little nudge that something important awaited his actions. He wanted desperately to fall back into the sensational mass, but it was just insistent enough that he knew he needed to satisfy it first. If only he could remember what it was!

He roved through the streets, keening in agony. The frustration kept bubbling over his ragged thoughts, ruining him. There were only flashes in his memory. They were blue. Blue! Something about the blue…

He howled and drove his fist into a wall, sending cracks up the side of a small structure. He was so frustrated! But, yes, frustration! Frustration was tied to the blue! What was it about the blue he remembered? Frustration, irritation, affection, annoyance, respect, acceptance, partnership, exasperation, patience and amusement! _That_ was the blue! A fuzzy image on the outside of his mind. He must find the blue!

Knowing not where to look, he roved off anyway. He would know the blue when he saw it. Of that much he was certain.

The swirling sensations of the city tantalized him, but he integrated them happily as he searched. After all, he knew what he was looking for now, and so long as the stimulation did not distract him from his goal he could indulge them.

The laughter and pleasure continued for hours. People chased each other around him, leaving him to his emotional quest. He picked up a fruit and ate contentedly. Relaxing. This was relaxing. How strange and wonderful that emotions could change so quickly! Hah!

Time ceased to exist. The blur and fun of people deepened into something else. Something… uneasy. Spock blinked as two brawling Vulcans crashed in front of him. They were restless. Uncontrolled. He felt pulled towards their conflict, his own dissatisfaction kicking up towards anger. The energy pushed him forward and he strode out into a crowded square.

The adrenaline hit him full force. A chaotic energy was almost palpable. The shouts and screams of the people –triumph, rage, venting- arose in a massive, unnerving cacophony. A bunch of sudden popping sounds assaulted his ears, and Spock turned to see windows getting smashed and carts overturned. The crowd churned, ripping violently apart. People were running everywhere. He was forced to run with them, else risk being trampled. That strange energy intensified. It clouded his mind further, the mob assimilating him.

He yelled nonsensically. It was all too much. They carried him along through the city, away from his search for the blue.

* * *

McCoy hustled nervously through the streets, doing a half-walk half-skip to propel him faster, but not too fast to be suspicious. At first he'd bypassed a bunch of Vulcans celebrating Rumarie. It had finally made him decide that the occasion _was_ some kind of hedonistic holiday, because everyone had just dropped everything to run around half-naked in the city. He had an embarrassing moment where he walked around a building and then promptly backtracked, trying to erase the image from his mind. Damn, who knew Vulcans could be so kinky?

The excessive love-making seemed to settle down later in the day. He kept an eye out for anyone who might recognize him, or just find him suspicious. The streets were surprisingly empty.

McCoy slowed down and paused. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt very, very different. Was he in a bad part of town? He didn't know where he was, just that he was trying to guess where the main square was located. Whatever the reason, he shuddered. Something had just changed, and he _knew_ it was for the worst.

He resumed walking, a little faster this time. These streets were narrower and deserted. Darting through the shadows, he glimpsed eyes peeking out of windows and retreating quickly. The hairs rising on the back of his neck, he quickly turned a corner.

A Vulcan nearly ran into him. He jerked back, startled, but the man just hurried on. He appeared to be carrying several random items. McCoy couldn't place them, and continued on his journey.

He passed a couple more Vulcans like that- scattered, carrying junk. The city noises seemed louder in this area, but still distant enough that he couldn't identify specifics.

McCoy crossed through an open alley and when he stepped on a busier street he gasped.

Vulcans roved about _everywhere_. They cared not for sidewalks or anything else, instead climbing on top of parked vehicles, up buildings, and more. Several of them started violently shaking a car, smashing glass and lifting it off the pavement. The cheers grew and exploded as they succeeded in tipping it over on the street, clambering on top of its underbelly.

McCoy backed away from the mob, watching out for the others. A woman walked by him carrying a bench. She crossed his path, and then threw it into a store front. McCoy flinched as the glass broke, eyes blown wide. The crowd suddenly jostled him from every side as they converged on the opening, whooping and cursing and looting. Two men tackled each other and started openly brawling on the curb. About five more rushed over and joined in, kicking at the individuals. Another Vulcan smashed a vendor's cart.

The doctor cautiously made his way down the street, trying to avoid the thick of the riot. There were so many overlapping voices that his translator couldn't keep up. A brick collided with a structure near McCoy's head. Startled, he picked up his pace.

Retreating down a side street, he kept his senses on high alert. He didn't know _why_ they were rioting, but he had a feeling that it wasn't part of Rumarie. There weren't as many Vulcans on this street, but they still exuded that same sense of danger. One was collecting rocks and throwing them at people. The Vulcan laughed whenever they hit their mark.

He ducked down another alley, pausing to catch his breath. This was _not_ his day. He didn't avoid getting killed by horny Vulcans only to die at the hands of vandals! Where was Spock? Was he in this mess?

"Unhand me!"

It was the first sentence his translator had relayed since the crowd. McCoy frowned and followed the voice further down the alley. It emerged onto another street, so far untouched by the rioters. A boy of maybe 12 (though it was hard to tell with Vulcans) was swatting away a pair of hands, resolutely walking down the street. Two men followed him, tugging at his shirt and shoulders. McCoy narrowed his eyes as the boy snapped at them again. "Don't touch me!"

Before he knew what he was doing, he stepped out of the shadows. "Hey!" he shouted. "Leave him alone!"

The two men stopped and looked at him. The boy pulled away from their grasp and stepped out of reach.

One of them leered. McCoy could practically see the disrespect oozing off his body. "Why do you care?" he challenged. His buddy snickered.

McCoy lifted his chin up and stepped boldly forward. "I _care_ because I hate bullies who can't pick on someone their own size. Any quarrel with _him_ is a quarrel with _me_."

"Do you challenge us?" the other Vulcan said, puffing out his chest and straightening.

McCoy rolled his eyes. What animalistic behavior. "To fight? Of course not. I'm just making sure that you two specimens will stop acting like complete idiots and leave the kid alone! You want trouble? Well guess what? There's a nice riot going on two streets back- I'm sure you'll find plenty of fun there. And in case that wasn't obvious," he stepped closer to the Vulcans, standing stoically in front of them and continued on in an icy voice. "That was an invitation for you to _leave_."

There was a tense moment of two heartbeats, and then the Vulcans broke out in laughter. "And you are stupidly brave, small one," the first man said. "Very amusing!" They wandered off, dropping the situation. McCoy quietly breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked over and saw the boy still standing there. "You should get home, kid," he advised. "It's not safe out here."

"For neither of us," he replied.

"Yeah, well… just run on home."

"That is, in fact, what I was doing when the two males took notice of me." The boy tilted his head. "I have never seen anyone with your particular eye color, nor ear structure."

 _Good Lord, it's a mini-Spock._ McCoy wiped some sweat off his brow. "Well, we all have our differences."

The boy nodded sagely. "This is true."

The doctor looked around then glanced at the lowering sun. Shit. Who was he kidding? He couldn't find Spock in this riot. What he needed to find was a place to hole up in for the night. Maybe a rooftop? He doubted the rioters would stop come nightfall. Plus, he was worried about the kid walking home alone in the dark. Who knew how far he had to go?

"Look, to make sure nobody else gets the jump on you, how about I walk you home?" McCoy nearly slapped himself when the boy raised an eyebrow. "I promise not to touch you, and it's just to make sure that you get safely back to your mother. I've learned over the years that it's better to travel in pairs, especially during times of unrest."

The young'un considered his words and nodded. "Then I shall take your advice. This way."

He followed the boy through more meandering streets. At least the kid had enough sense to avoid the larger roads. They could still hear smashing and shouting from the main marketplaces. They moved quickly through the dusty, smaller lanes. A few stray Vulcans gave them curious looks, but considering the city's turmoil nobody asked them any questions.

It was turning to dusk when they reached a cluster of stone houses. The boy paused before a door, then reached up and knocked.

He had hardly touched it when it flew open and a furious Vulcan woman was revealed.

" _When did you leave?_ " she demanded. "You know you're not supposed to be out during Rumarie! I had no knowledge of where you were! I feared for your life when the unrest started! Your father didn't know where you were, either! And who are you?!"

McCoy jerked when the ire suddenly landed on him. He opened his mouth to reply but the boy beat him to it.

"This man helped me get home safely, mother. He warded off two imbeciles and protected me on the streets."

The woman seemed to calm with a huff and McCoy almost smiled when he realized that this was the classic mother-worried-sick-about-her-child situation. "Get inside and eat your dinner," she ordered tiredly.

The boy nodded and stepped around her. McCoy lingered by the door, unsure if the woman was dismissing him or not.

"How bad is it?"

"I'm sorry?" he questioned, confused.

"How bad is it out there? I've only heard rumors."

"Oh," he realized. "Well, they're definitely rioting. It seems to be worse closer to the center of the city. There's a lot of looting going on, too. I'm not sure what the two men would have done to your son had they gotten a hold of him," he confessed.

She closed her eyes, breathed in, then opened them again. Already McCoy could tell that she was a lot more focused. "Well, I suppose it's to be expected."

McCoy ventured forward. "Ma'am- do you know why everyone's suddenly gone crazy? From what I've seen it all just suddenly happened."

"There's been some sort of unfinished coup," she said. "Chancellor Tirann is dead. It is believed Varteth orchestrated it, but he is dead as well."

"Oh, well-" McCoy's face paled and he rocked back on his heels. "Tirann is dead?"

"Indeed." The woman looked him over. "She and her delegates were slaughtered in their dwelling. No one knows who is Chancellor now. Why are you so troubled?"

McCoy was finding it hard to breathe. "I was just there," he gasped. "This morning. I-" he hesitated, then forged on anyway. "I was a prisoner in her household, legal collateral from Shi'al. I escaped this morning during the Rumarie activities. Oh my God. It would have happened right after I left. I would've died, too."

The woman studied him. "You were a kafeh of Tirann's?"

He nodded nervously.

She looked down the street, then looked back in her house. Her eyes softened suddenly as she turned back towards McCoy.

"I am Vilar. You have no dwelling place for the night, but you are welcome to stay here."

McCoy gaped as a surge of emotion welled up inside of him. "I- thank you. Thank you very much for your kindness."

"It is only due," Vilar replied, suddenly looking away. "I do have to thank you for bringing Surak safely home."

"It was only a few-" McCoy stopped talking and blinked as he followed her inside. "What did you say your son's name was again?"

Vilar tilted her head, almost confused by his question. "Surak," she said. "His name is Surak."


	8. Kahr'y'tan

**A/N: Okay, technically it's still Saturday. A little late on the upload, sorry, been a loooong day. Anyways, I'm back! And here's the next chapter! Many, many thanks to everyone who has reviewed- they're such a joy to read. I won't delay you any longer; enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Kahr'y'tan- the way of Vulcan_**

* * *

Spock blinked as the rising sun hit his eyes. He was sore and stiff. Moving, he realized he had fallen asleep atop someone's abandoned market cart. It was no wonder his bones ached.

He hopped down and wobbled unsteadily. He felt exhausted. Squinting against the light, he could barely make out the trashed ruins of a market square. His head pounded and he closed his eyes again. Opening them, he acclimated himself to the morning sunlight, and tried once again to stumble through the square.

Vegetables and other vendor items littered the ground. The occasional sleeping (or unconscious) Vulcan was tucked in the odd cranny out of the way. Spock observed the mess as he wandered out of the square, trying to recall what happened the day before.

His head felt… somewhat clearer. There were disconcerting gaps in his memory, and merely flashes of intense emotion and adrenaline. Scooping up a stray piece of fruit, he ate as he walked aimlessly, trying to recall his mission.

Spock remembered something about something blue… and the conflicting emotions along with that concept. He focused and found the fuzzy image of a blue shirt and blue eyes… he knew that figure. Dr. Leonard McCoy. McCoy! That was whom he needed to find! With the missing link in place, other segments of his agenda drifted back to the forefront. He needed to find McCoy and also some kind of lab to try and send them forward back to their time. What kind of lab? He should know, he really should, but his thoughts failed him.

Suddenly frustrated, Spock chucked the fruit's pit against a building. A group of Vulcans nearby looked at him in curiosity, and he felt the hairs on his neck raise. He hurried off, feeling their burning gaze follow him until he was out of sight.

It would not do well during his search for him to forget about the Vulcan unrest.

* * *

McCoy awoke and briefly forgot where he was. As the ceiling above him came into focus he remembered the events of yesterday. Good night, was that boy really the renowned Surak? Was this Surak's house.

His whirring brain kicked him into motion and he rolled out of bed.

Vilar was already up and had breakfast out on the table. Surak was across the room applying a sticky paste between some boards on a window that McCoy was sure weren't there last night. He smoothed his hands down his pants as he walked closer to the table.

"Good morning, MkKoi," Vilar greeted, turning his attention away from the young philosopher.

"Good morning," he replied. "Is, ah, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Well, you're a bit late for that," she stated, indicating the food on the table. "But perhaps we can talk about clean-up."

McCoy nodded earnestly. "Yes."

They sat down to eat at the table, though Surak took some bowls away to some pillows towards the boarded up window. McCoy's eyes flicked back and forth between him and the planks.

"Has there been more unrest?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

"There will be," Vilar said, chewing thoughtfully. "V'Kana says that still no one has come forth to claim rule of the city. Varteth's old units are taking control of various buildings, but have made no official statement. They may also be divided over his death, but it's uncertain." She shrugged. "Until then, we shall have to wait until the confusion dies down."

"Of course…" With a pang McCoy thought of Spock. Did he manage to escape from wherever he was during the rioting? He certainly hoped so, but if he did then that meant he was somewhere out there in that mess. Was he injured? McCoy's worry spiked with the possibility.

"Do you always do that?"

Surak had spoken. They turned to where the boy had scrunched up his face, looking at McCoy. "I'm sorry… do what?"

"Project," he spoke plainly. "You're really loud when you do it."

"Surak," his mother chided.

McCoy flummoxed. He hadn't been talking loud at all. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean."

Surak crossed his arms. "Your feelings, your _emotions_. You are confused, correct? And first you were scared. It is as if they bleed off of you and they're very loud. So could you please stop?"

McCoy's eyebrows were up in his hairline. He had not expected this at all. "My emotions are an intrinsic part of me- I can't get rid of them or, 'quiet' them at all."

"Ever?" Surak asked incredulously.

"They wax and wane but I live with them every second."

The young Vulcan was silent, considering his words. "That must be unbearably annoying," he said.

If Spock had said those words, no doubt McCoy would've riled up his precious emotions into a scathing retort, but as it was he only felt fascination. "Don't you experience such strong emotions?" he inquired.

Surak opened his mouth to reply but his mother beat him to it. "Surak, why don't you board up the window in the bedroom, no? Let the adults finish eating."

He wordlessly got up and set his bowls in the sand-sink before grabbing some planks and the paste and disappearing into the other room. McCoy watched him, his mind whirring with the implications of his words. Projection? The others hadn't been aware of it, but maybe they hadn't been attuned to him enough to pick it up. It certainly explained a few odd moments in his Vulcan encounters: Rahnen flying off of him in mirrored fear, other Vulcans backing away and leaving things alone that he considered normal. Perhaps on a subconscious level he had influenced those reactions. McCoy turned his questioning gaze towards Vilar. The Vulcan woman was resting her head in her hand, elbow on the table. She smoothed it across her forehead and glanced at him.

"My son is… different," she said with a tight smile. "In much the same way as his father, but perhaps a little more." She chuckled. "And that may be my fault."

"Oh?" McCoy was intrigued.

Vilar leaned back and sighed, watching the doorway Surak had disappeared through. "He Who Is My Husband, Turek, is very reserved. Quiet, calm… different. Surak takes after him in this respect but he can't hide it very well. Turek at least learned how to blend in. Now he is only a little odd, and only I see it when he is home from the plant. But Surak?" she hummed quietly, almost wistfully. "He does not hide it. I don't think he can. And I know that's _my_ stubbornness in his identity. I've never compromised myself for the sake of others, and Surak is the same."

McCoy chuckled. "That, at least, is something I understand. I have been told many times that I have the same trait."

Vilar smiled. "Indeed? That is somewhat gratifying to hear. It is sometimes more troublesome than noble, but a woman must be strong if she is to bear these times, especially if she raises a child." She rubbed her brow. "I am lucky Turek is so calm, though sometimes I hate him for it. I get so frustrated with these times and so angry at the behavior of other Vulcans, especially the men, and he just stands there and handles my outbursts so calmly."

Curioser and curioser. It sounded ironically like him and Spock. _Oh my God, we really_ are _an old married couple_ , he realized. Trying to push that thought from his mind, he motioned for Vilar to continue.

"I am often ashamed of when I lose control like that. It is completely normal, but not to Turek and our son. They are so calm, but while Turek has accepted it Surak still does not understand. When he was little he asked me so many questions. Why?" The tone turned fonder. "He asked 'why' for everything."

The doctor grinned. "Those are certainly interesting years. I remember when my daughter went through the same phase." They shared a nostalgic grin. "Why do I have to put on clothes, Daddy? Why do I have to wear a seatbelt? Why do you have to go to work?" His smile hollowed and he swallowed thickly. Why are you leaving, Daddy? "Of course, not all of them are easy to answer."

"No," Vilar whispered. "'Why are those men fighting?' 'Why is that woman so upset?' 'Why did Pahnik hit the teacher?' He didn't understand. He still doesn't understand. He is calm like his father, but he doesn't fit in like me. He just doesn't… _connect_ like the other children."

"Interesting," McCoy mused. If the boy was surprised at McCoy's emotions (and how/why did he pick up on those?) he might only have a muted sense of normal Vulcan passion. It was doubly fascinating that he might be so sensitive as to pick up on the doctor's empathic projection and yet so insensitive that he didn't understand that of his own species'. Was Surak, perhaps, the Vulcan version of autistic?

"Does he connect with you?" McCoy asked. "How is the, the parent-child bond?"

Vilar looked a little confused, and he feared that he'd gotten the term (and/or time period) incorrect. But she closed her eyes and seemed to focus inward.

"It has always been very light. I feared it was some fault of mine that I could not make a stronger bond with him. But Turek spoke of much the same and has never been bothered by it. They discuss many things at great length… I simply don't have that emotional connection I yearn for." She opened her eyes and looked at him. "But I have long made my peace that I will never have that with Surak. He is simply… different."

"Well, so am I," McCoy mentioned spreading his hands. "And my difference is one people can see plainly."

"Yes," she answered with a wry smile. "I had wondered at your strange ears and eyes and the stories behind them. Most would view them as a novelty, no doubt."

"Yeah," he exhaled, thinking of Tirann. Even secretly human he was an unusual specimen. No wonder the Chancellor wanted him in her home.

That train of thought went down a much darker road than he liked so he tried to return to the previous topic and breakfast. "Well," he said, picking at the bread. "We're _all_ different in some way or another when it comes down to it, so what's the point in fighting over who's _most_ different?"

"Indeed," Vilar agreed. "It is a sympathy I wish more would understand, MkKoi."

Surak reentered and the conversation lapsed. McCoy joined them at the sand-sink, scouring the plates and sifting the crumbs out of the sand. Distant shouts and clamor echoed through the tiny home as the city and violence reawakened.

* * *

Spock moved quickly, uneasy of anyone. He did his best to avoid crowds, but they were largely inevitable in an oasis city. As the sun rose higher, so did the mob's fever.

He was all too familiar with the madness of yesterday, and it still rang distantly in his mind. Today he was afraid of it, though even admitting that fear was a sign that he was still not back to the Vulcan he was. The mass looting and random fights spoke of a barbaric, primitive society: the exact opposite of modern Vulcan. It was more than embarrassing: it was shameful.

Humans often wondered why Vulcans always looked down on their past instead of accepting it as mere history like they did. In a sense, humans had not changed so radically. Surely, if they could see _this_ \- see that Vulcan leaping out of a store window clutching a bundle and those two teenage females tossing a runt back and forth over its mother- they would know why this past was so utterly rejected. Spock caught the runt and sternly snarled at the girls, handing it back to its mother.

Yes, if they understood what it once was like, humans would not argue the drastic change.

Of course, that brought his thoughts back to Dr. McCoy. Spock had passed some sort of energy plant (its gate smashed in) that still seemed to operate. He had lingered by the trashed foyer, wondering if he should try to find a way to fix their predicament there and then find the doctor, but decided against it. Tiredly, he trooped by. How would the doctor be handling all of this? Was he alive? There were rumors that Tirann was dead, and Spock knew firsthand that Varteth had planned an attack on her main dwelling. Without proof, however, he dismissed them. A Chancellor had the finest security around. McCoy should be fine.

His thoughts were interrupted by a howl and a brawl. Before him, a man and woman lurched onto the street, brutally beating and clawing at each other. As Spock watched, she ripped the man's ear off the side of his head. He yowled and tugged sharply on her hair, making her screech. Spock backed away down an alley, horrified. This was not the Vulcan way. This was madness.

Although, whispered a little voice in his mind as another Vulcan ran by with a flaming torch, he had tasted that madness. And now a man lay dead because of it.

He was a Vulcan. He could control the madness.

Oh? The voice whispered. Don't be so sure- _they_ are 'Vulcans' too.


	9. Sasahr-tor

**A/N: Thank you, everyone for the lovely reviews! Thank you so much for following this journey. Chapter 10 is taking me some time (and an unexpected Windows 10 "update" did not help things) but I've got a direction now and if I have to split it into two chapters (which is looking likely) then we're looking at an overall of 12. Getting close, guys!**

* * *

 ** _Sasahr-tor -flee_**

* * *

McCoy worried, but for Surak's sake he tried to keep it to himself. He didn't want to outstay his welcome, and yet he was (understandably) reluctant to leave. Things were still crazy out there, according to Vilar's neighbor V'Kana who had a house on the corner. He wanted to go find Spock, as Vilar knew (after all, on that first day nearly the entire city learned there were _two_ survivors) but also reasoned that he should stay in one place if the Vulcan was looking for him. To put off the decision, he continued doing odd chores around the house. It was so small, however, that he was quickly running out of things to do.

It reminded McCoy of pictures of the slums in Old Cairo, he mused as he swept the floor for the fifth time. Shaking his head, he did his best to focus on his current situation, and to make a decision at some point today. But the house was so different from Tirann's. There, the security, rooms, and amenities had been large. McCoy hadn't even seen the work side of the house, being confined to the personal areas as it was. Here, there were really only two rooms, (three if one counted the narrow kitchen). Since they were on a hill the bedroom(s) were a step or two above the main area. With everyone staying inside, it should feel crowded… and yet, somehow, it didn't.

When he got towards the door he peered through the cracks outside. There was a growing crowd, but so far no one had done anything yet. Still, it was best to keep an eye on them. It only made McCoy more reluctant to leave.

Vilar came out of the bedroom, brow drawn and worried. She glanced outside and paced towards the kitchen. "Turek should have been back by now."

"Is the plant still doing normal shifts?" he asked.

"No," she said curtly. "He went in last night to batten down the defenses as the unrest began. But he should be back by now- it is almost midday."

McCoy frowned as he tried to figure out what could have gone wrong. He opened his mouth to offer reassurance when several popping sounds erupted. Vilar, with far better hearing, immediately identified them.

"Glass," she said. "They're breaking into the houses."

The shouts had suddenly swelled and several more crashes sounded. Something broke and Surak made a startled sound from the bedroom.

"Surak?! Just stay-" Vilar was cut off when the door blasted open. It hit the far wall as no less than three Vulcans surged in the house. The first one caught Vilar in the blink of an eye and the two of them barreled backwards into the kitchen. McCoy launched himself at another and suddenly found himself on the floor, head spinning.. _I should check for a concussion_ , he thought before he was hauled up again.

He squirmed quickly in the Vulcan's grip, doing his best to avoid any punches. There was no doubt that a direct hit like that would cave his ribs in. His fingers itched for a hypo.

The intruder threw him towards the table and the ramshackle thing buckled under his weight. Dazed for a moment, he blinked up towards the looming Vulcan who now regarded him with curiosity. Shouts echoed around them. He reached down and pulled on his shirt, tilting his head as he looked at McCoy's eyes and ears. Turning over his shoulder, he called back to the third Vulcan who was smashing things left and right. They shared a laugh, and then he was back to poking at McCoy's strange features, turning his head and rubbing around his eyes.

McCoy tried to push him away, fear and unease thrumming through him. The Vulcan blinked, surprised for a moment, and the doctor realized that once again the desert species was picking up on his emotions, especially since his hands were touching… his… face…

The Vulcan picked up on that fact the same time he put it together.

"Damn you!" McCoy shouted as he felt that ghostly sensation in his head. It was light, so light, but it was already too much and the Vulcan's curiosity would not be quelled. "Damn you and your whole planet! Get OUT!"

He thrashed wildly, trying to dislodge those terrible fingers. The Vulcan pressed down to try and keep him under control but McCoy would not be contained. Fear morphed into anger which surged up from within, determination to show who's wrong and a _need_ for all this to _stop_ overpowered everything.

And he had learned something in the last day or two.

"Fight _THIS!_ " he shouted and clapped both his hands on the sides of the Vulcan's face. All of his emotions surged to the forefront- fear, anger, frustration, determination, vindication and more flooded him and he knew that the Vulcan felt it too.

The man shrieked and pulled away, unbalanced by the foreign assault. The 'get-out' adrenaline kick McCoy was fueling not only made him abandon his attempt into McCoy's mind but flee the house as well. McCoy shook as he stood up, fists clenching and unclenching. He saw Surak peer out of the bedroom, eyes wide.

The third Vulcan glanced at McCoy, then bolted for the kitchen. McCoy followed him and managed to yank him back by the shoulders.

"Surak!" he shouted. "Kid, get over here!" McCoy wrestled with the Vulcan, keeping behind him, trying to get his idea to work but knowing that Surak would be the one who would succeed.

"What?" he asked, racing up. McCoy snatched his hand and brought it down on the Vulcan's shoulder, placing his hand over Surak's in the right position. He squeezed, and the Vulcan suddenly stiffened and went limp. They let him drop to the floor.

"What was that?" Surak demanded, for once looking furious.

"Relax, kid, he's only unconscious. A handy technique you'll need to know- totally harmless." McCoy glanced behind him towards the kitchen where some horrible, repetitive sound was commencing. He motioned Surak over as they crept towards the entryway.

"Then why couldn't you do it?" Surak asked, following him, but glancing at the man on the floor.

"Because I'm just different!" he snapped. "Trust me, it's fine! Now we need to see about your mother." He inched closer towards the doorway, took a deep breath, and peeked around the corner.

Vilar was bludgeoning her attacker with a spigot. He was clearly dead at this point- half his skull was caved in and green blood drenched the counter and floors. She kept whaling on him, however; in a desperate frenzy she struck him again and again.

McCoy backtracked and moved Surak away. "What is it?" he wanted to know, but McCoy simply quieted him. "Something you don't need to see."

McCoy hauled the nerve-pinched Vulcan outside, quickly retreating indoors even though the mob was already well down the street. He and Surak waited in the destroyed living room until finally the wet sounds stopped and Vilar emerged from the kitchen.

Splatters of green blood dotted her dress, arms, and face. She seemed unaware of it, marching blankly towards the bedroom. Halfway across the room she realized the bloody spigot was still in her hand, and she dropped it carelessly on the floor. McCoy turned Surak away.

Several minutes later she reemerged in clean clothes with most of the blood scrubbed off (though there were still flecks of green by her temple). She met McCoy's eyes, looked at Surak, and nodded.

"We will leave," she decided. "And go find Turek." And that was all of the matter.

* * *

The city was still madness. It was so different from the Shi'Kahr McCoy knew. They passed looters, rioters, and partyers, all behaving in cue with the escalating violence. Trash littered the streets. It was dangerous to be outside, yet they had learned that it was also dangerous to be indoors. Perhaps they could make it to the fortified plant where Vilar's husband worked.

McCoy still didn't know what type of plant it was, but as long as it was safe he didn't care. They stuck close on the sidewalks, moving quickly.

Vilar had a gun. There was one hidden in the bedroom and it was already understood that she would be the one to wield it. McCoy suspected that some of his pacifist leanings _somehow_ were impressed on these Vulcans and Surak had already been freaked enough by the nerve pinch. Besides, neither of them were the one who beat a Vulcan to death with a spigot.

She was in front, leading them through the city. Surak followed closely behind her, and McCoy was towards their right, keeping a sharp eye out for those who wished them ill. Vilar kept the gun tucked closely to her body- visible, to scare away troublemakers, yet not out far enough for someone in the crowd to snatch it and flee. She had barely spoken since they left the house, and kept her lips pursed as her eyes intensely took in the sights before her every step of the way.

A strong woman indeed.

Though he had mentioned Spock, nobody knew what he looked like, so in the tight, crisp conversations they had as they roved between alleys had him describing the pale, lean science officer. The normal 'pointed ears' description wouldn't work for obvious reasons.

"He's lean, too," McCoy said as they darted across a street. "And sounds kind of monotone. Black hair in a bowl cut?"

"MkKoi," Vilar interrupted as they skirted an overturned cart. "Your information is appreciated and we _are_ keeping an eye out for your friend, but what, pray tell, is a bowl cut?"

McCoy almost lost his balance on a loose cobblestone and tried to keep from laughing. He was tired and thirsty, and now they were talking about _bowl cuts_. "Trim bangs in the front and straight down short hair the rest of the way around," he said, amused. "I imagine it will become very popular one day."

"It does indeed sound practical," Surak reflected. McCoy turned away and coughed.

"Quiet," Vilar stilled. She cocked her head, listening. "This way." They hurried through an alley, darkened from the slant of the gently setting sun. A few wheeled vehicles roared past the street they were just on, their drivers howling at the top of their lungs. Vilar shook her head. "Madness."

"Why do they not simply stop?" Surak questioned.

"They get carried away with their passions," she said, checking to make sure the other street was clear.

"But surely they realize this?" he protested.

McCoy laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Self-control is a beautiful thing and one of the hardest to master," he said. "But right now it is what it is. Let's go."

They hurried onwards, skirting around the center of the city. McCoy had never seen this area before. It clearly showed signs of a rampaging mob- windows were busted and houses were looted much the same as it had been on their street. McCoy shivered. He didn't like knowing that others had been attacked in the same way they had been. Unconsciously he reached up and rubbed his temple.

"Son! MkKoi!" Vilar called and jumped up onto the sidewalk. They were hot on her heels and heard a terrible braying sound. One of the scaly creatures that pulled carts burst on the street, loping quickly over the trash. Vulcans on its back sprayed bullets randomly at the houses. The trio threw themselves down on the ground, though fortunately all the bullets seemed to go high. The beast charged away and an awning above them creaked, its supports now shredded. They glanced up in time to see it crash down on top of them.

McCoy swore and tried to untangle himself from the fabric. He pushed away splintered beams and sticks of wood that would surely leave bruises. He heard Vilar and Surak stirring and muttering as well. He braced his hands on his knees and took a moment to regain his breathing in the hot, thin air. In, and out. In and out. Someone was calling him, but he could tune the strange chatter out. It didn't matter. In and out. Breathe.

When he opened his eyes, he stilled and knew why the chatter was so strange.

His translator lay in pieces before him, the strip of cloth used as its necklace blowing faintly in the wind.


	10. Kaunshuk

**A/N: Hello, and welcome to the next installment! Yep, this chapter definitely had to be split into two, so we're looking at twelve chapters total: one more, and then the epilogue. Almost there!**

 **Couple things: thank you, once again, to everyone who has reviewed thus far. They really warm my heart :) Also, special shout-out and thanks to Ihamtmus for drawing the cover photo. It was a wonderful present!**

 **Lastly, I have just noticed the particular timing of this post. At 12:15 Pacific Time (3:15 EST) there is going to be a moment of silence in honor of DeForest Kelly, since today marks the 17th year since his passing. Rest in Peace. This chapter is now dedicated to him.**

* * *

 ** _Kaunshuk- united_**

* * *

Spock believed that McCoy was dead. The city darkened as the sun sank lower but against the far horizon he could see fires burning downtown. The rioting and madness had merely grown as people demanded answers to their questions. Confusion and rumors thrummed through the city, and with each passing hour Spock found it harder to believe that a human could survive the chaotic display of Vulcan emotions.

He had started to backtrack towards the energy plant he had seen earlier, though his conscience warred between finding a way out of here and leaving McCoy's body. Of course, he didn't _have_ a body. He didn't know where to begin looking, either. The roads leading to Chancellor Tirann's home were blocked by Varteth's units and Spock could only speculate as to what he might find were he to get there.

Spock stepped out on a wider street where smaller groups of Vulcans traversed. Piles of refuse burned at random places, casting enough light to navigate. He began to cross the street, trying hard to recall the path back to the plant.

Except, distantly, he thought he heard someone calling his name.

* * *

For several seconds McCoy could just stare, heart in his throat and lungs frozen. Vilar's voice called him again, and he suddenly snapped, scrambling to pick up all the pieces. "No, no, no!" he mumbled desperately.

A hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up. "MkKoi!" Vilar snapped. She said some other words, but McCoy didn't understand them. He didn't understand, dammit!

He held out the ruined translator. "I don't understand you," he said. Vilar stopped talking and blinked, confused by his language. He furiously tried to recall the phrases Spock had taught him when they were first captured. "Gol-nev ken-tor?" _Help, understand_.

Vilar glanced between him and the broken circuitry, finally putting two and two together. Surak watched them both curiously. She hesitated, looking at her son, then finally back at McCoy, reading his desperation. She nodded once.

"Nash-yut." _This way._ McCoy understood the gesture and followed them closely. His anxiety spiked as they passed other Vulcans chatting and he couldn't tell if they were plotting, cursing, or just walking. He caught Surak giving him some strange looks and tried to squelch his emotions. Don't get the kid worked up. Hell, don't give the young philosopher who will completely reform Vulcan into their modern species an anxiety complex!

Unable to make meaning of what he was hearing, McCoy paid rapt attention to what he saw. He helped them duck when he spotted a group of teenagers prepare to throw some rocks at them. Vilar continued to guide them through Shi'Kahr.

They stepped onto a wider street and started to move up it. It was much darker by then, though flaming trash lit their way. McCoy's eyes scanned each Vulcan on the street, looking for any signs of danger. Someone new walked out of an alley and began crossing the road. McCoy's eyes bugged in his head. It couldn't be… but it was…

"Spock!" he shouted, breaking away from Vilar and Surak. Spock turned, his own eyes widening in shock and those damn eyebrows going up… that's it, McCoy was going to just flat-out _hug_ him.

He ran up to him, threw out his arms…

…and Spock ducked. McCoy fell over his shoulder, snatching air, and Spock promptly rose and carried McCoy over his shoulder down the street.

McCoy was flabbergasted. He looked up from Spock's back and saw Vilar and Surak trailing them cautiously. Vilar had two hands on her gun, trying to discern whether she should use it or not.

He swatted Spock. "Happy to see you, too, but you mind putting me down?" Spock tightened his grip and just kept walking. McCoy squirmed. "Dammit, Spock, I'm a doctor, not a duffel bag! What's gotten into you?" He glanced back at his other companions, then lowered his voice to a fierce whisper.

"Spock, I expect you to be on your best behavior in front of Surak!"

 _That_ made him stop. Spock put McCoy down in front of him and gripped his shoulders. "Did you say 'Surak'?" he asked, hardly breathing.

McCoy nodded, gesturing behind the science officer. "The boy. His mother's with him. Be nice, Spock, they put up with me even after my translator broke."

Spock turned stiffly to where Vilar and her son had halted. He nodded once and raised his hand in the Vulcan salute. "Greetings," he bade them in Old Vulcan.

They looked vaguely confused. McCoy nudged Spock. "Has that thing been developed yet?" he murmured, nodding towards his hand. Spock looked mortified for a moment and quickly put it down.

Vilar approached them and carefully looked Spock over. "You are Spock?" she checked.

"Indeed," he answered. "My thanks for harboring Dr. McCoy."

McCoy watched as the two conversed in Vulcan, a light smile on his face. Spock kept glancing at Surak like a stupefied fan who didn't quite know how to act around their idol. As Spock and Vilar spoke, he looked his friend over for any injuries. Wrists looked a little sore, and he was generally unkempt, but that was usual for having been through a rough few days. McCoy tried to pay closer attention to Spock's mental state and normal idiosyncrasies. The cavemen greeting had been very unusual. Fortunately, knowing he was before the great Surak seemed to put Spock's mind on the fast track back to himself.

"We only have to go up the Ve'Lassen Road and then we reach the plant," Vilar said.

"Ve'Lassen is burning," Spock replied. "It will be impassable for some time. There is a back way, however. I, too, was heading for this plant."

Vilar hesitated, then looked at McCoy. For some reason he trusted Spock, and for some reason she trusted him. The blue-eyed man was smiling, dutifully looking over his companion.

"Very well," she decided. "Lead on."

* * *

The party of four crouched below the gates outside of the plant. Trash and Vulcans milled about in the yards, but the building itself didn't appear to be breached. Spock pointed to an opening between some trucks. They darted across, keeping low around the Vulcans haphazardly carrying torches, and maneuvered towards the back of the building.

Vilar took the lead and led them through some tighter walkways and up to a backdoor. It was tucked away, so most of the rioters hadn't noticed it yet, but she seemed to have used the door before. A glowing keypad stood next to it, but she didn't touch it. Instead, she looked up into the camera above the door and started speaking.

McCoy inched closer to Spock. "What's she saying?"

Spock studied Vilar for a few moments. "She is asking for entrance," he related. "Stating she is the wife of Turek and in need of refuge."

"What about us?" he asked nervously.

Spock pursed his lips. "I do not know." His eyes flicked back to Surak, who watched his mother intently.

Finally, the door opened, and a Vulcan quickly ushered them inside, glancing worriedly around them. He shut the door immediately after the four of them entered, securely locking it. Turning back to Vilar, they started speaking rapidly.

"Spock?"

"He is saying it is very unusual for them to let in civilians, and also against protocol. She is repeatedly thanking him. Apparently Turek has some influence."

They followed the stressed plant worker deeper into the facility. McCoy nudged Spock as they passed a couple rooms. "Is this a nuclear plant? Reminds me of old documentaries on them."

Spock stiffly surveyed the doors they passed. "It would appear so."

"Spock," McCoy prodded. "Maybe we could get home!"

"Do not hope yet, Doctor," Spock replied softly. "This is a very secure facility."

Vilar cried out and suddenly ran forward. A Vulcan from down the hall met her. Surak ran towards them, too, but only watched them interact. His mother sobbed, clutching onto her husband. Turek merely held her and nodded at his son. Spock and McCoy stood off to the side, watching the reunion… and surveying the laboratories.

"But we're inside, Spock," McCoy pressed quietly. "You know we could do it."

Spock said nothing.

* * *

The nuclear power plant had been transformed into a fortress against the unrest outside. Most of the workers were unkempt from the long hours and sub-standard living, but there was food, water and, for now, safety.

McCoy and Spock sat down quietly in the corner of a room converted into a larger galley. Surak and his parents stood in line. Spock watched them, and McCoy watched Spock.

"You're not okay," he said flatly.

Spock shifted minutely. "I doubt either of us would be able to meet that assessment."

"I know, it's been rough, but I'm talking _beyond_ surviving the rioters," McCoy pressed. "You're a bit off your game, Spock. Any idea why?"

Spock pressed his lips and studied Surak. He was a Vulcan. He was in control. Breathe deep.

"Well, I've got a couple ideas," McCoy continued in the face of his silence. "Since we're back to just before when Surak here starts preaching I reckon you're reverting back to your ancestors, just like Sarpeidon. To top it off, I don't think any Vulcan here has shields, and y'all are just feeding off of each other's emotions. Self-sustaining, certainly, and I learned a trick of my own that way. I know _my_ emotions subconsciously affect these fellas- why shouldn't they affect each other?"

Spock stirred. "Your emotions influence Vulcans?"

McCoy favored him a smug grin, but largely bypassed the bait (mostly because Spock didn't seem aware of that sublevel in the conversation). "Minorly, and only when they're extremely strong. Still, saved my skin a couple of times already. No shields, like I said. Can you tell you're being bombarded with Vulcan feelings? Or at least my human ones?"

"It may explain certain moments of sarcasm," Spock said slowly. He stiffened. "But their madness is no excuse for my own behavior."

"Right," McCoy said. "Sure. The time period itself we _know_ is working you over, the intense Vulcan passions surrounding you is likely, and we've been here for days… Spock, you can't ignore the factors playing into this."

"Ultimately, Doctor," Spock said sharply, still watching as Surak sat down with his family. "I still remain in control."

McCoy's eyes slowly flicked down to Spock's clenched fists. The whole story wasn't being told. He studied Spock a moment longer before deciding to let the loaded gun lie.

"Alright, new question: how are we going to get out of here? What materials do you need?"

Spock closed his eyes for a while. When he spoke, he kept them closed. "In the first cold start the reverse thrust of the _Enterprise's_ engines propelled us backwards in time. In the test reaction likely the particular spin of the oscillator slung-shot us backwards through the time stream. Logically, to go forward in time we would need a powerful forward thrust or spin to determine our direction."

McCoy nodded. "Okay. But that alone won't send us through time."

"No, doctor. I… will need access to enough power to simulate antimatter. I would also need a way to channel nuclear energy into a similar, if not identical, format as a cold-engine start. It is then that we would tie these elements to the forward propulsion unit."

McCoy chewed on his food thoughtfully. "We'll need some form of precise guiding system. How will we know when we're far enough into the future to stop? Or avoid overshooting?"

Spock sighed. "Doctor, in both cases precision was sorely lacking. The time travel is largely an accidental side effect. I do not have any basis from which to start developing precision." He sounded annoyed, and, apparently realizing such, suddenly reopened his eyes and ogled Surak.

The doctor watched him, amused. "You keep that up and Vilar will order a restraining order against you."

Spock inhaled. "It is… indescribable to be in the true presence of Surak," he breathed. He blinked suddenly. "And a shame that I am not behaving to his standards."

"What standards?" McCoy said. "He hasn't formed them yet."

"I am still not acting like a true Vulcan."

McCoy shook his head, remembering that the tiny spark of surprise and awe Spock had displayed when they met an image of Surak was enough for him to apologize profusely. Now, before the real deal… and greeting him by acting like a caveman…

"Spock," McCoy coaxed. "This is the world he lives in. He's used to it, even if he doesn't understand it. Besides, I'm sure that he finds even the slightest _inkling_ of the logic-life refreshing, but there's no need to drop it all on him at once. Wouldn't that kind of muck-up the future?"

Spock stilled. "We may have already done so," he said quietly.

Hm. There was a bit more to that untold story he was hiding. McCoy decided to sound him out. "I figure that time can fix itself," he dropped casually.

Spock shook his head. "This is irreversible."

That narrowed it down. McCoy didn't like the remaining possibilities. "Look, when I altered time at the Guardian of Forever, there was a quick way to tell. The US not entering the war on time would have been a big red flag that the timeline was changed. So far, is anything that happened different from the Vulcan history you know?"

It seemed to pull Spock back from whatever morose thoughts he was sinking into. "There are records of an event known as the Rumarie Riots," he pondered. "The exact dates were unknown, but it was instigated by a power vacuum."

McCoy nodded. "Which makes sense; Tirann is dead."

He startled. "She is?"

"Yeah." McCoy looked away. "I, uh, heard it from Vilar. Escaped just in time."

"And there was no one to take her place," Spock murmured.

"Oh, so you know something about it?"

"It was orchestrated by Varteth-" Spock broke off, fists clenched tight once more.

Touchy, touchy. That was probably the root of the issue. Still, he did not want Spock going emotional again in front of his idol- he'd suffered enough already.

"So power vacuum," he repeated. "That's good. It means that this was already a part of history. Huh. I guess if you're not messing around with a focal point in time, then your actions in the past are already a part of the past."

"A very crude theory, Doctor," Spock said at last. McCoy grinned. There was a glimpse of the sparring partner he knew.

"But good enough for me!" He sipped some more water and looked around. "Okay, so back to business. Step one: antimatter power, or its equivalent. How do we harness that?"

"There are plenty of reactors in this plant," Spock reflected, grounding himself once more by glancing at Surak. "If we tap into the energy in a raw nuclear core, we could come close."

"Alright, so find core, tap energy. Step two: connect with the time stream, or whatever happens during the cold start."

Spock started to launch into the quantum physics of the equation, and McCoy let him rattle off some numbers before he held up a hand.

"So, I didn't understand any of that," he said. "But what _items_ do you need?"

"It is a matter of recalibration, mostly," Spock reflected. "It's largely a way to convert the raw nuclear energy into the cold antimatter reaction, in layman's terms."

"Can you do that chemically?"

"Theoretically."

"Would the chemicals for that conversion be here?"

"Possibly."

"And would you be able to control elements such as the necessary pressure, temperature, and radiation for the procedure?"

"It is likely, from the control room for the core."

"Well, then I say we've got a shot!"

"Your certainty that the statistically unlikely event of our return to the future will occur successfully is astounding, Doctor."

"Now you sound back to normal."

"We are still missing one crucial element."

"Right, that forward propulsion. That shouldn't be too hard."

"What leads you to that conclusion?"

"Shi'Kahr bombed Da'Kum'Ulcha, Spock," McCoy rolled his eyes. "I know you can put it together. All we need to do is 'acquire' a nuclear missile."


	11. Ma'toi

**A/N: Hello, darlings. I would like to apologize for the long delay in getting this chapter up. My usual week to write was interrupted as I helped my mother with some relationship stuff, but then, right when I began to write this chapter just following the deadline, I kind of got myself into a teensy plane crash (although some argue with me that it wasn't technically a plane crash, but I don't know what else to call it. A plane-got-blown-into-a-ditch?) Sigh. So there were more delays as I scrambled to shift around finances as this chapter eeked out bit by bit. And then what do you know, last night I just scrapped the whole thing and REWROTE it. Yes, I, Danzinora Switch, actually rewrote a chapter. This like, never happens.**

 **So at long last! Ta-da!**

* * *

 _ **Ma'toi- death**_

* * *

It had taken them another two days to locate the necessary materials. McCoy, operating on the brilliant idea that he could fake dyslexia, had wandered around the plant "lost" locating control rooms and other such labs for underground nuclear missiles. The strange-talking, blue-eyed, round-eared "Vulcan" had to keep getting redirected to the refugee area by the station's personnel. It was a good thing that he could also fake innocence so well- despite being professional nuclear engineers, they were still Vulcans before the Time of Awakening.

Spock, meanwhile, had been diligently working on the necessary calculations and calibrations to get home. In truth, the working plan they had was a long shot, quite literally. One of the biggest kinks was figuring out where to place the missile so that it would not follow them home… and thus actually destroy the Da'Kum'Ulcha they knew. The vast majority of his research was theoretical, but so had been the original cold-start equation, and that proved to be quite concrete. Besides, their plan _had_ to work.

Increasingly, though, the workers grew suspicious of them. Vilar and Surak remained largely out of the way, helping fortify certain exits but not much else. The power had to be maintained, which meant the plant had to be run. Due to the barricades, the workers could not leave. The grouchiness increased proportionally to the stress. Spock wondered if volunteering his services as a scientist would allow he and McCoy to have more time in a control room to enact their escape.

Yes, escape. It… thrilled Spock that should he stay he could watch Vulcan overcome this way of life and follow the path of logic Surak would set. But he could not stay. He was too wrongly influenced by the environment. One worker snapped at him and he almost snapped back, hot anger flooding through his veins as he was reminded of Varteth's men.

Varteth. That was another reason he could not stay. They had to escape.

He knew McCoy was watching him for further signs of mental slipping. Although his physical wounds were healing quickly, the mental imbalance remained just noticeably enough that the doctor had gone so far as to offer him one of his remaining tri-ox compounds. Spock had declined, knowing that the human needed them more. He should, after all, be strong enough to control his own mind.

 _Except he wasn't… shameful indeed._

Spock gritted his teeth against that traitorous little voice of doubt. He would ignore it, control it, and focus on polishing his calculations. He glanced up to see if Surak had returned, but of course he was not there. Spock had watched his grounding device exit this morning with his mother to assist elsewhere in the plant.

McCoy entered the sleeping room where he was, a worried expression on his face. "Spock, you're gonna want to get out here."

"Why?" he asked, rising. He stuffed his notes in his pocket, watching as the doctor's eyes shifted back and forth.

"I can't tell what exactly's going on. Everyone suddenly started moving like there'd been an alert or something. There's definitely been a change, that's for sure."

They moved out into a large hall where people were running. Another worker jogged by and Spock called out to him. "What is happening?"

"Shaya," he answered curtly. _Breach._

McCoy tugged his sleeve as the worker hurried on. "Spock?"

"There has been some sort of breach," he said. "It is not known whether it is some sort of problem within the plant, or an external force."

McCoy raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Spock. The city's been rioting for days. I'm pretty sure 'breach' means some folks have gotten past the barricades."

"Perhaps…" It was indeed most likely. In fact, it was entirely logical. He was sick of constantly second-guessing his own flyaway thoughts.

"We should move now," he decided, barely beating McCoy to the punch. "The workers are distracted- take us to the control room for launching the missiles."

McCoy nodded and immediately set off in the opposite direction the workers were running towards. They wound through a maze of hallways- no wonder the doctor could easily pretend to be lost. By the time they reached the room with the correct Vulcan label beside it, a red alarm had started to blare. The breach to the plant was serious, then.

McCoy opened the door and they rushed inside. The doctor locked it, and turned to where Spock perused the row of computers. "Will this do?" he called.

"Indeed. I can also program many instructions to the missile itself from here. This is fortuitous." Spock flexed his fingers and sat down, getting straight to work.

McCoy put a chair against the door and narrowed his eyes at the remote room. "They must really be spread thin, huh?" he remarked, walking towards the large viewing glass near the front. "Not a soul in sight."

"Doctor, please, I am trying to work," Spock said earnestly.

The doctor nodded and peeked out the viewing glass. He whistled. "Found our missile."

Spock hardly looked up. There was no telling how long the unexpected chaos would last, or if it would find its way to their location. The alarm kept ringing, only slightly muted by the door.

He hit a wrong button and got a scan of the control room instead of the missile. His eyebrows went up. This was an unexpected find. The scan had picked up some sort of tachyonic residue… on _them_.

"Doctor, your thoughts, please."

McCoy balked, then quickly smoothed down his countenance as his brain corrected for his initial assumption. He bent down and looked at the screen.

"Tachyon… isn't that the little particle thingy that's connected to time stuff?"

Spock visibly winced at the doctor's description. "Very crudely, yes."

"And it's all over us," McCoy mused, gears turning. "Like a film, I reckon. That may be why we didn't fall sick from radiation when we first arrived here… it would've been much stronger and possibly protected us. Of course, this is more quantum physics than medical biology, as seen by the scan… _you're_ the astrophysicist-"

"Doctor, it may be possible to guide the missile to the correct point in time based off of this residue," Spock interrupted. "I can hack into the targeting systems and tell it to locate this specific arrangement based on our residue, but it will take some more time."

McCoy winced as the alarm suddenly cut off. "Then you'd better hurry up."

The doctor moved to pile more chairs against the door. Spock furiously worked on incorporating the new variable into their plan. A dangerous new emotion fluttered in his side. Hope, it was hope… but he needed to remain focused on the task at hand.

There was a large bang and McCoy jumped, startled. "I think somebody knows we're in here," he gulped nervously.

"They may have noticed the unauthorized computer activity."

There was some muted cursing followed by intense shaking of the handle. Built for Vulcans, however, the lock held.

"Spooock," McCoy inched closer to him.

"Almost completed, Doctor. I am programming changes in the missile's nuclear containment system to alter the energy into the form we need."

"How long will that take?"

Spock tapped the last button. "7 minutes."

McCoy nodded sharply. "Then let's get out of-"

The door suddenly sparked and blasted open, scattering chairs. Spock grabbed the back of McCoy's collar and hauled them both over a bank of computers and out of the line of fire. Smoke and shouting filled the room. Spock's eyes widened. There was a lot of shouting, with voices overlapping each other. It wasn't the workers coming to drag them from the room.

He glanced around the table and saw troops shoving a few workers into the control room. His heart stopped. He knew those boots, those uniforms. These were Varteth's men.

* * *

McCoy heard the strangled noise Spock made in his throat. He glanced at the players in the field and immediately picked out the distinctions. The workers shouted at the military troops who simply shouted back, waving their guns. They hunkered down lower, knowing their hiding spot wouldn't last as everyone pressed further into the room.

Spying something, McCoy poked Spock's arm. It shook the Vulcan out of his temporary freeze to see where McCoy was pointing. An emergency door stood by the viewing glass, leading into the chamber with the missile. It was the only way out.

Spock nodded, and shifted to move when a shot rang out. Someone cried out and fell, perilously close to their location. It was Turek.

The gunshot was the tipping point as the workers roared, only to be outdone by the volley of bullets coming from _behind_ the troops. More workers, armed, poured in, led by a screaming Vilar. She fired unmercifully into the crowd, hardly caring who she was hitting.

McCoy and Spock seized each other and bolted for the emergency door. One soldier saw them and gasped. "You!" he shouted, shocked. He trembled with anger when his eyes fell on Spock, quickly putting two and two together. It must be. " _Murderer!_ "

Spock whirled and clenched his fists. " _No!_ " he shouted back, suddenly shaking.

McCoy skidded to a halt and grabbed his arm. He didn't know what they were yelling at each other, but they couldn't afford the delay. "Spock, we don't have time for this!" He yanked him through the door, setting off yet another alarm, just as the soldier moved for his weapon.

They crashed onto a rickety platform, tumbling the first few steps down a grated staircase. It reminded McCoy a bit of vintage fire escapes. Spock had gotten to his feet and was surging downwards, shaking the entire stairwell as he recklessly tore through. McCoy followed quickly, his heart beating fast from the sudden firefight upstairs. The _thump, thump_ almost fell in time with his boots, providing the soundtrack of urgency.

"How much time do we have?" he called to Spock. _Thump, thump, thump, thump._

"5 minutes," he answered curtly. "If the computer running the program is not destroyed."

It made McCoy waver and glance back up towards the viewing screen. Green blood was splashed on the window as muted gunshots still rang out. He hurried farther down the stairs into the earth, noticing the coolness of the missile chamber drying the sweat on his back. The cables hooked up to the missile steamed and hissed, echoing around the rock to underscoring his heart thumping _thump, thump, thump_. They clanged further down the stairs.

"What about launching it?" he asked.

" _Already preprogrammed!_ " Spock snarled, striking his palm against the railing. The sound bounced off the walls of the chamber as the stairwell swayed with the motion, mixing with the doomed heartbeats.

McCoy regarded Spock carefully. "Okay," he mollified cautiously. He didn't dare step closer. _Thump, thump_. "You good?"

"I am not a riyeht-staya-su," Spock growled, gripping the railing.

That was the word the soldier had said that got Spock all riled. It had certainly sounded like something more than an insult, and were he to guess… He narrowed his eyes, then caught Spock's look and held it.

"Whether you are or aren't," he said brusquely. "Does that have anything to do with what we're doing right now?"

Spock blinked, breathing raggedly. _Thump, thump._ "No," he finally ground out.

McCoy nodded once, sharply. "Then drop it."

Spock obeyed the command and they clambered the rest of the way down. Above, the shouting vanished behind the hiss of the missile.

* * *

"We have two minutes," Spock said crisply, striding up to the missile. "The reaction when the tied-in, converted, nuclear power hits the main thrusters should be similar to a cold start with a forward thrust. It is set to launch immediately after the conversion is complete." As he spoke they could hear the slow drone of the engines powering up and an automated voice coming over some speakers.

"Where should we be?" McCoy asked, hurrying up beside him at the base of the missile. He craned his neck up to locate the top, occasionally glancing at the distant, bloodied viewing screen. No one had followed them out, but whether that was good news or bad news…

Spock didn't look at McCoy as he answered. "Right here."

There was a brief pause before an ominous rumble in the chamber shook McCoy and he barked out a laugh. "Not the time for jokes, Spock," he gasped. "I'm too jazzed up for games."

"I am not joking," he said quietly.

McCoy's laughter ceased abruptly, though a desperate smile remained frozen on his face. "But, but we'll be incinerated."

"Not if the recalibrations work."

"If they work…" He was no longer smiling, and the blood had drained from his face. "Spock, we can't- we can't!"

"We must."

"We'll die!"

"Perhaps. Or we will return home."

"Or we- we need to make _sure_! What were all those calculations for?" A klaxon blared once through the chamber, making them cringe. "Spock!" McCoy begged, on the verge of panic.

"The control room is in chaos. We will see this through as it is. One minute."

"Spock, I don't care what you did while we were separated, but I am _not_ going to be a part of your guilty suicide!"

 _Yes, you will_ , Spock thought. _You're too loyal, and you most certainly never leave a friend_. Even now, though shaking and convinced of death as the machinery above came to life, McCoy didn't move from Spock's side.

Where did such trust come from? Spock wondered. He couldn't grasp how he deserved it. Despite all his control, despite all of his rigid upbringing, he caved to the passions of Pre-Awakened Vulcans. Deep down, that animal still remained, jumping out as soon as he was weak enough to let it. He did not deserve such devotion. The only thing that tamed the beast was the presence of Surak-

-whom he would never see again. How strange, he realized, as the seconds ticked down and the room groaned mightily. There was no proper good-bye to the philosopher. He last saw the boy leaving the sleeping room at Vilar's side, walking off to help the plant workers. It was a ridiculously normal moment, no grand farewell, and yet it would be his last memory of Surak. The human value of not taking things for granted suddenly became very, very clear.

He glanced over at McCoy as the ceiling split open, illuminating a growing streak of light on them below. His eyes were blown wide with adrenaline, terrified, yet somehow simultaneously seeking and giving reassurance.

The deadly machine above them rumbled mightily, almost drowning everything out. Maybe McCoy was right. Maybe he didn't care whether the plan worked or failed. The growing vibrations shook him through his bones.

"I killed a man," Spock confessed, straining to be heard over the roar.

"I know," McCoy answered. He gripped his hand as the engines started.

Whiteness.


	12. Mene

**A/N: And now we've come to the end of the road. Thank you SO much to everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, translated, and read this story. I'm glad you were with me on this ride. Thank you.**

 **This is the epilogue, short, but it covered what I wanted covered, and I saw no need for unnecessary fluff. I hope you enjoy it, and that you made reread the story in its entirety again :) If there are any loop holes that stand out to you, please let me know. I try my best to cover all my bases, but on occasion something will slip by me. Also, I trust that you know McCoy's canon background, and that I do not need to explicitly state it. You'll see what I mean. ;) Once again, thank you all for your positive and generous support. Enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Mene- life_**

* * *

Each time was inexplicable. From that day around Psi 2000 to their mishap 10 days ago (was it really 10 days?) and even now. How could one possibly describe it? It was something both more and less than a sensation. There was the slight impression that, for a brief moment, you were on the edge of infinity; and as you reached a hand up to press against the fragile film separating you from the expanse of time and space _(look at all the stars!)_ something pulled you back, shaking its head 'not now'.

Such was all that lingered when Spock opened his eyes. The laboratory stood before him in frank normalcy. To his left, the small reactor hummed, chugging on with its experiment. The clock above it read mere seconds after Spock had started the test.

The body to his right moved. McCoy slowly straightened, looked around, and took a cautious step away from him. Spock watched as the doctor's shoulders tensed and relaxed repeatedly as he processed their new reality.

When he was a few steps further into the room he turned around, cautiously controlled hope flickering in his blue eyes. "Are we-?" the words got stuck in his throat.

Spock could have said a dozen things. Theories and estimations whirled in his head. How the plan worked. How, likely, the tachyonic energy from this moment was drawn to their residue and pulled them precisely back to when the cold-start was initiated. How they just missed watching themselves disappear. How the missile would travel time through all eternity, burning out on its ghost path through millennia. How so many things could have gone wrong. How nothing short of divine intervention could have nudged the odds in their favor.

He said none of it. Instead, he reached over and turned the reactor off.

McCoy's eyes followed his movements.

He carefully and deliberately folded his hands behind his back and took a weary breath. "I must turn myself in to the proper authorities."

"Why?" McCoy prodded, eyeing him. "For the murder of a man 2,000 years ago?"

Spock tightened his grip. "It is shameful."

"You know you weren't all with it," McCoy approached, his timbre approaching that acidic insight he was so good at manifesting. "The era was ripping apart your shields, and even then, _I know_ you still have to be _provoked_ to act violently."

"None of this changes my guilt," Spock replied sharply. "It certainly was no accident."

McCoy halted, eyes narrowing, then folded his arms. "You're right."

Spock blinked. An agreement? This was very unusual coming from the doctor.

"You killed a man, Spock," McCoy continued. "Nobody else did it. It was by _your_ hand. He lived and died 2,000 years ago, but _you're_ here _now_. You're still guilty, there's still blood on your hands, but no one will prosecute you for a crime that old. So now your only choice is to _move on_." McCoy stepped closer. "And you know something else? _It hurts_."

Spock studied him carefully, trying to deduce if McCoy was practicing reverse psychology on him. That hypothesis proved unnervingly untrue.

"It _hurts_ ," McCoy repeated, never breaking eye contact. "And you'll still feel a bit of that hurt every day for the rest of your life. But you move on anyway. You hear me?"

"Doctor," Spock cleared his throat. "I cannot expect you to understand what it means for a Vulcan to break-"

" _Try me._ " McCoy's blue eyes glittered.

Spock paused. He hadn't heard of McCoy doing anything unspeakable while they were trapped in the past. The doctor followed his Hippocratic Oath religiously, but then again, so did Spock with his values…

Spock nodded slowly. There was... a sense of logic in what he was saying. Though still confused, and in dire need of meditation, his head felt clearer. It excused nothing, but perhaps he was in a slightly better position to look at what they survived through more rationally, if not completely logically. Yes, indeed. They were out of the Pre-Awakened era and he lived in the age of the modern Vulcan. One must endure despite the... pains... of the past. He took a deep breath and found no judgement in McCoy's eyes. Weariness and age, but no judgment.

"We should get back to the ship," McCoy murmured. "We're both scratched up mighty good… and could probably use some shore leave to boot." He sighed and rubbed his arms. "And at least it'd make sure that we didn't mess up any focal points in the past…"

Spock nodded again, not quite sure of what to say. Varteth, Surak, Tirann, Vilar… as if none of it had ever happened (except for that guilt; and McCoy was right, how it hurt). He walked over to the communicator lying on the shelf (right where he had left it, so many days, seconds, ago) and flipped it open as McCoy drifted near him. "Spock and Dr. McCoy to _Enterprise_ , come in, _Enterprise_."

"Enterprise _here, we read you loud and clear._ "


End file.
